Nancy Drew, Girl Detective, Loses her Virginity as Medical Necessity to Fend off Hypothermia
However, they were not very lost.
Merely shouldered a farm road
she’d never noticed before.
And hypothermia, in mid September?
Rare, to be sure. It’s fifty-five
degrees after dark,
technically still summer.
Dressing, she consideres this,
and worries about the development
in her case. Was it the beginning
or the end of something? Or both?
Was it so bad,
how he mined her mouth
with his slimy tongue poking,
or nearly ripped the blouse
her aunt had made for her birthday?
Did he notice, as a good detective would,
the matching bra-top and underpants
indicating she was not adverse
to being seen in states of undress,
that she was, in fact, herself, a clue
to whatever his own mystery was to solve?
Or did he ignore the ancient languages,
dive into her like a foolish preppy brute,
which he was.
Did he even acknowledge who she was,
what there was to love about her?
Did he think to whisper,
“Your deductive reasoning excites me!”
or make a joke about not needing
a magnifying glass to appreciate her breasts?
And if Nancy, the stalwart virgin of our youth,
can neglect at the most crucial times
to ask or answer the most crucial questions,
what hope is there for we unobservant, oblivious girls
and our merely-symbolic detective notebooks
full of unicorns and scratch-and-sniff stickers,
who’ve lost so much, been lost so much,
and revealed ourselves,
releasing secrets to someone
who cannot be quiet in the library?
