Fifteen

(after Kim Addonizio)

I know my daughter is going
she sits across from me
in the driver's seat, reaches
over to the radio buttons
always seeking, never listens
to an entire song. I know
how she used to bring
her baby blanket everywhere,
how she ate the fuzz from it,
now a scrap of security
tucked away in a drawer.
She sprays perfume that smells
like cotton candy, carries
a cell phone in her pocket,
and drinks bottled frappucino.
She defines cheerleader,
and confident has her first
I love you boyfriend.
She knows how to use
all the oxygen in the room.
I call her princess,
the only thing I say
she embraces these days.
She pretends not to know
that I know she is going.
She sits across from me
with her learner's permit
and birth control.