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Billy
Howell-Sinnard
I Knew This Girl In High School
after Modigliani’s Portrait of An Unknown Model
This could be her portrait,
at least, this is how I remember her,
older than us, wiser, out-of-reach eyes
letting everything in. Junior boys
who got drunk on Saturday nights
all wanted her. She let cigarettes burn
to ropes of ash, drank Tequila
shots, lemon and salt a sacrament.
She drew lilies in schoolbooks,
hid her poetry under the bed.
She blew classes with senior boys
who wagered on the color of her pubic hair,
listened to her as they would their mother.
Rumors of an older man, I heard she
dropped out of college, backpacked
through Europe. At a used bookstore,
I found a poetry chapbook,
Charcoal Lilies,
cover art by the author,
keep it under my bed.
July 4, 1967
Fireflies lit the pines
like flashing Christmas lights.
I was jealous
when she said
her ex-boyfriend’s name
Punk.
I imagined one of those rebel types
I daydreamed of being
but laughed
asked if there were ever fireworks
then touched her cheeks
with fingertips
kissed her.
She hadn't liked him that much
so I kissed harder.
Under hundreds of blazing Icarus,
we collapsed together
like reckless butterflies.
our first
apartment
the door upstairs
is shut
and locked
mice run the downstairs
our baby's on the floor
grey fugitives
trample across his belly
with cobweb feet
he's on his back
running horizontally
going nowhere
smiling
with goofy delight
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