Chain of Events

It started with Being and Nothingness

and hiding a pack of Luckies in my schoolbag,

tucking a matchbook in front without tearing

the cellophane. I risked taking the streetcar

downtown late at night—did they never hear me?—

and basked in the gleam of Herb Pomeroy’s band

and the tang of underage vodka in orange juice.

I quit sleeping in metal curlers, told everyone

I was an existentialist, though I kept

wearing my Peter Pan collar and “gold-tone”

circle pin, almost right up to the night

of the abortion. I gave up on the straggly

pageboy. I think that was part of what Mother

meant when she screamed, Where did I go wrong?