Here is a poem by Marilyn Hacker, I need some help with its analysis:

FOURTEEN We shopped for dresses which were always wrong: sweatshop approximations of the lean- lined girls' wear I studied in 'Seventeen.' The armholes pinched, the belt didn't belong, the skirt drooped forward (I'd been told that at school). Or odd-lot bargains deformed the image, but she and I loved Saturday rummage. One day she listed outside Loehmann's. Drool wet her chin. Stumbling, she screamed at me. Dropping our parcels on the pavement, she fell in what looked like a fit. I guessed:insulin. The cop said, "Drunk," and called an ambulance while she cursed me and slapped away my hands. When I need a mother, I still go shopping.

-- Abigail Ampon (abbz_ven@hotmail.com), January 30, 2000