Thursday, April 1, 2010

More prickly fiction

I did just spend a weekend with dear old friends. This is not about them, and I'd hate it if they thought it was. Still, there's a freckle of truth in everything.

Quick first draft here. I'm supposed to be working.

At Seventeen Again

We say we’re the three musketeers,
but it’s a tribe, like certain families and religions,
with a manufactured history. We were children
together. We are bone-deep friends now.

Julia and Jamie reminisce
about things I never did. How many high school nights
did they burrow into a boy’s chest,
their mouths bitter with Bud,
while I watched Carol Burnett with my parents?

Remember homecoming? Jamie says
as we shop for middle-aged chadors,
menopausal masques. I wore out my shoes.

Julia laughs. Remember Rocky Horror at midnight
after the spring musical?

How many brain cells did we lose? Jamie is a doctor now.
We did so many lines that night. Remember the powder room
in Ginny’s basement?

Julia looks at me, open eyes lonely. No, I don’t. And I want to
squeeze her hand, just for a second.

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