M dyed her hair crimson, wore a tiara, 70s blue eyeshadow,

plush lips, rose cheeks, on the ‘Edge of Seventeen.’

We ate watermelon ice-cream, waited patiently,

sat on the grass amidst a sea of girls. One in front of me

had calf tattoos, a heart with three swords plunged in,

another heart with a sibyl eye, its tears burst the border.

We started a trend, fatigued girls sitting in groups.

Then Wet Leg took the stage and a ‘Mangetout’ frenzy broke out,

followed by a ‘Chaise Longue’ ascent. During Wolf Alice

the crowd became a tight fist. We stood at the knuckle

held too tightly against one another––

smothered by pheromone and exposed girl flesh.

Ten hours had passed at the festival. Finally

Chappell strode onto a neon gothic stage in her new romantic

lace overcoat singing ‘Femininomenon’ Stevie Nicks style,

a white winged dove cooing ‘Ooh, baby, ooh, said, ooh.’

And all the girls around me were cooing too.

I wanted to join in, was dehydrated, unable to breathe well.

I turned against the tide of bodies which mysteriously

opened up a channel, released me to a porous border of night.

As Chappell started up another anthem I momentarily worried

for my daughter chanting along to ‘Pink Pony Club’

in a 30,000 strong crowd. But, I knew she’d find me afterwards

at the YSL stand, waiting expectantly, as we’d agreed if separated.

Earlier we’d seen girls lining up to get their makeup applied,

we’d sauntered by, untethered to such beauty apotheosis,

as if our makeup is applied only for glory and heterotopia.