All of us boys heard the stories
about those senior girls, those girls
with school yard cigarettes
between their red lip-
red lips that could do anything,
at least those were the stories
we boys heard.
One of those girls, the one
in the light blue halter-top,
the one showing the shadows
of her nipples in the fluorescent
lighting of the sea green-
the way the circles changed color
when she walked outside in-
to the school’s stale, humid air.
She was so physical, she was so
well known, she was known to sleep
on the beach, to let water lap
against her body, allow its coolness
to surround her after another body
had used it.
And when she passed us boys
in the green-tiled hallway the next
Monday morning, we boys would stare
at her darkening nipples, follow her
every step, hope to gather even
the slightest granules of her
still shedding sand.
Curiously enough. I was speaking to a school friend in Dublin this a.m. There is a Reunion this Friday of the class of 19?? God I wish I was their. There we were chatting about the girls and how we were then. Majority of the girls got married. All had children, a few adopted, a few lost. A sad story of one girl who had everything (still does) and her best friend from a large family saw this dress and was saving like mad for it. Next thing at the local dance one Friday night, her best friend arrives in wearing the dress. They haven't spoken since.