I sang tenor in the school choir
because the boys’ balls hadn’t
dropped, or their balls had but not
their voices. On the highest riser,
I wore an early draft of my breasts
and sang a row of notes
no other girl could reach down
and touch. I wondered how
the sopranos’ throats could pinch
round whole notes so thin,
they were near breaking
but didn’t break. It came down
to range, to the body suddenly
amplified. Parts of me cracked
and wavered, but not my voice.
I sang in the back of the choir
like a boy among boys.
I could go that low.