We, Young Girls

raised as bodies, as chalices holding empty purity, as brides preparingare not brides. We are thirteen, taught to pray for perfect men, given instructions to write wishlists  to be fulfilled by God, as if God cares the persons we end up with prefer pancakes prefer dogs are christians  are men.At girl’s bible study we write our lists with pink and purple Crayola markers, address the envelopes to our future selves. We write a note:  How incredible it must be opening this on your wedding night.We, young girls   forbidden  to expose our shoulders at summer camp; we, young girls compared to pitchers holding finite amounts of Kool-Aid( Every time you do ityou pour a drink.Save your Kool-Aid.Be full and ready—your husband’s pitchermay be half-full. )wake up a decade laterin the beds of men we have no intention of marrying. We try to remember our lists. ( Was “Virgin” a requirement? ) Does God, aware of the doctrinal insignificance of contracts written with washable marker, understand loneliness? That we, enlightened women on birth control, appreciate Their creating compromise as a means to cope.Our sleeping men do not meet our adolescent standards. We tell ourselves this is not important: Kool-Aid expires, can ferment if kept too long in the cool and the dark.Our men keep sleeping. We lay quietly listing and alone.