Before I Was
a Girl,

Grace Sleeman

my brother and I played desert island in our backyard on summer evenings. I wore my hair at my shoulders and the sun had turned us brown. I wore my shirt open because all the boys in movies wore their shirts open when they were stranded on desert islands. The kitchen windows were open and our mother called us in for dinner, which was pancakes with strawberry yogurt but because we were stranded on a desert island it was actually jellyfish, which our mother ate when she lived in Japan and to us seemed unimaginable. When my father came to the kitchen he told me to button my shirt up even though it was hot and my brother was shirtless across the table. When my father came to the table he handed me girlhood and I have never learned how to put it down.


Grace Sleeman has fallen out of every tree she's ever climbed. For her, much of the contemporary feminine experience means finding the sensuality in the mundane and finding worms after a thunderstorm. She grew up in Damariscotta, Maine, and now lives in Portland. Her work has been published by Koukash Review, Slipstream Press, and Red Rock Review, among other publications. You can find her online at @myrmiidons


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