to the three girls waiting in line

i.

the girl waiting in line
turned and kicked the
boy behind her
squarely in the crotch
and he fell
to his knees like a melon
dropped from a roof

the principal
was summoned from his
office and he stood, square-jawed
over the fallen
who wailed
and rocked with
his knees to his chest

we all gathered
in a circle
around them
the girl
with her arms crossed
looked down on the boy
and the principal did too

as if the boy
was a hot coal
that had been
spit from a fire
onto the cold
pavement of the
playground

balls
i heard whispered
kicked in the balls
my peers said
some tittered
others gasped
we all clamored

the principal
as if having
had to take some time
to measure up the
scene finally spoke
to the girl and
we all became quiet jurors

why?
he asked
and she kept her arms
crossed and
stared at the boy
she had waylaid
who now whimpered

he wouldn't leave me alone
she said
so you kicked him?
she didn't look
at the principal
but rather at
us

and we looked back at
her this girl
who shared classes
with us and hallways
and lunches who'd become
a kicker of balls
the new unrighteous

why?
our principal asked
his hair was thin
and waved in an
april breeze
he looked
like a clown

he snapped my bra
the girl spat
and then cried
her hands to
her face
shoulders jumping
i looked at her chest

we all did
and we recalled
she was the girl
who got those before
all other girls
and she was
taller too

i have a crush
on her now
that i thought of it
as we stood there looking
at her crying
all the girls were taller
than me in fact

the school nurse came to collect
the mewling boy
and helped him
back into the school
holding his balls
bent over like one of those
war veterans at the Memorial Day Parade

no one snapped
her bra after
that we all let her
be and in time
my crush waned
and the girl waiting in
line faded away

ii.

a mother in a cafe
sat across the room from
me and stared out
the window
toward some
kind
of history

her face
drawn by a
caricaturist at
a county fair
on this sepiatic
day
in april

i want to
see that history
i think to myself
it would be
a telling story
jagged as the Maine seacoast
blue-gray as sandstone

she is wearing
a long-sleeved
shirt with a buttoned
collar
and a pair of dress pants
and dress shoes
with two children

who dresses like this?
i ask my palms
with two toddlers in tow?
looking out a cafe
window
at a disappointment while
the kids eat blueberry muffins

she has been
told something that
wasn't ever true or didn't come true
or felt true but she knew
was a lie in her heart
out that window are
the words that haunt her

she wanted to finish
college maybe but cannot
or she is friends with a man that
her husband doesn't like
or she longs to
be the lead in a play
that will never be staged

one of the children
the blond boy rests a hand on her slacks
leaving an oily print
that only i notice
the button to her blouse
at the breasts has popped open
and i look away

iii.

a friend confided
recently that she
is the target of
a swarm of
jackals
wearing the smiles
of church-goers

she is ripe
for the picking
of course
don't let that brilliant
countenance
throw you off the
scent of blood

a girl's heart is a bell of
horsehair crinoline
bracing a skirt
of public considerations:
mother, daughter, wife
friend
lover

undress her
and she burns

her soul is the core of
a distant sun kept contained
by the mass of her own passions
she is really just another star
until she gets close to you
then she becomes your source of
heat

my friend
the one encircled
dabs feeble unguent on
the bleeding sores left
by the teeth
of the vicious
familiar

they tear at
her to get beneath
the ribs of the underskirt
taunting the source of their heat
not realizing that
her warmth will be stilled
when pushed far enough away

iv.

to the three girls
waiting in line
yours is a
story about
falling
leaves
in a forest

painted hands
at the ends of
maple branches
slip away
and down
to a wet path

to some it is
the floating down
and the impact of
the fall, and the
brief brilliance
of your autumnal
change

to me
it is
your waiting
that makes you
strongest
on the branch
a canopy, a source

the descent
will come to
us all
but those who wait
and endure
are most
beloved