He Stared At Me Like No One Ever Had
The Girls Who Went Away, 2
He stared at me like no one ever had. I was, at first, extremely unimpressed. I’d turned fifteen, the summer made us drunk, And all our playful and flirtatious games progressed. Sharing banana splits, a tidal wave Of nausea sent me vomiting outside. I saw him tell my mother in the car. Just go she said, and hugged me as I cried. Abandoned in this place, just kids ourselves, Each day at breakfast we survey the room And envy absent girls who’ve just “gone over.” The winter passes slowly by. The flowers bloom. Once, one girl stopped by afterward. She’d changed. It frightened me. She’d had a boy; but more Than that she wouldn’t tell. At dinner no One ate. I tucked her memory in my bottom drawer. When my turn came I had to be induced. Next day, waiting to meet my daughter, the girls I shared a room with said don’t get attached. I’d only count her toes and touch her curls. When they came to take her, I asked, and prayed That she’d forgive me. Still I do not know If she ever did. The social worker Packed my things, and said it’s time to go. She stopped the car beside a beautiful Blue lake. Her suitcase bulged with forms for me To sign. Not yet—not now—but she insisted, Turned, and balanced papers on my knee. I said now wait, I want to know my rights. She said the government paid all your bills. She wouldn’t tell me where my daughter was. I hadn’t slept, and I was shivering with chills. She wore me down. Holding my breath I signed my name. But that was years ago. Today I live wild, and court death.
After “Dorothy II,” in The Girls Who Went Away by Ann Fessler.
Part of: The Girls Who Went Away: Poems.