Patty Cole

You were ripe peaches
swaying in a summer breeze,
Farrah Fawcetts floating
around every corner,
down every hall gussied
in Bonnie Bell lip gloss
and Maybelline mascara.

You were big laughter opening
lockers—click, click—telling
secrets about the big game
the night before; you kept
jocks on short leashes.

If I could have spent
one entire day walking
in your skin, I might have
something to look back on.
I might not have been
subterranean.

I didn’t commit crimes
beneath bleachers with boys
I’d never remember at class
reunions; never gave up
my innocence to be
on the homecoming court.

I was outside your margins,
the name you never found
occasion to speak, a shy girl
ground under indifferent feet.