3 Poems by Makenna Johnson

Hypothesis of the Teenage Girl

If you care what others think, even a little (is it possible to care only a little?), then you will
become a sixteen year old girl writing poems in her notes app at eight P.M. This is supported, of
course, by a because.
Because when you started out so small—living out long days with thin hair blowing in the
wind—you didn’t want to stay that way.
Because you wanted to grow up, to be the girl you saw across the sidewalk.
(That’s on the side effects of going to a K-12 school, a control experiment should certainly be done.)
But because you wanted blacker eye lashes and a torso that wasn’t a rectangle, you took to
braiding your hair and wearing shorter dresses.
Because you wanted people to love you so badly that it resulted in you becoming completely
alone, sitting in sad silence listening to the talk about thirteenth birthday parties you weren’t
invited to.
Because of this you wanted more to be wanted, turned to God to be wanted, turned away from
God because you remember how you hated being the last second grader to stop believing in
Santa Claus.
Because you knew the older girls had pretty boys you figured it wouldn’t be so hard to get one
for yourself.
Because of that a domino was tipped, a butterfly flew in North Dakota, you started a new
tradition of crying on your birthday.
Because you met a new boy who found you funny, could listen with both his ears, could say the
right things, you put your head on his shoulder.
Because you still sleep with your teddy bear that scared you like a gunshot.
BANG!
You took advantage of those last seconds of escape.
This led to forgetting what you wanted, doing perhaps the wrong thing out of blatant fear of
doing the wrong thing.
Because you were now lonely you spent time in dramatic reflection, wrote paragraphs about
things you thought you could not change.
Because you tend to get bored and love a good change you asked him if you could be his.
Because of this you had to ask him everything.
“Dance with me.”
“Call me.”
“Eat dinner with me.”
“Come and hang out at my house.”
“Did you hear me? I asked if you would like to come and sit with the girl you are obsessed with
at her house?”
Because of this you realized obsession to the level you take it isn’t what so many people—so
many boys—look for in a high school romance.
Because he made you run out of makeup remover faster than you ever had. Because you had to
keep asking him everything.
Had to ask him to leave you.
Because of this you found the little girl you once were to be a poet. Pretty words on an app
rationalizing your tears.
The teacher asks if my hypothesis is testable. Of course it is, don’t you see? Look how I
squirm—the mouse under the microscope.


I’m Going to Have a Baby

You’ve now been gone for the amount of time it takes a woman’s body to grow an entire
working human complete with fingernails, a hungry mouth and a thumping, unbroken heart.
The years are repeating her days, this October overlapping with last one, low opacity so I can see
through both.
Let’s compare.
Last year: my lips on yours, our hands woven together so tightly our bones should’ve crushed, a
quiet anxiety rising in my stomach, a desire to dig my claws into every perfect moment as though
I could make it stay.
This year: my golden hair longer, a new novel idea in my hard drive, late nights with loud songs
playing in my car, my eyes still scanning for yours in a crowded room against the counsel of the
wittiest breakup advice.
I am better, I am worse and that is life.
resignation grows in my stomach, maybe one day I’ll give birth to healthy acceptance.


Little Fishermen

My sticky little brothers patter barefoot on the dock
I lay out in the sun, letting it stain me, like a mood ringing turning anger to happiness
They cast their lines over and over in a sort of hypnotizing pattern
Five little bass are their reward after hours of waiting
Quickly forgetting their joy, they cut them into smaller pieces to bait better ones
I am the fish, I am the fisherman