This Girl I Knew

She is a virgin in a whorehouse
living clean, rosary wrapped
around her fist clenched
in the agony of goodness, repentance
for saying “shit” during mass,
wishing her mother dead.
The sight of her own blood
twirls her stomach into a tight rope,
knotted and stretched.
She giggles shrill at whispered
stories lobbed back and forth,
a paper trail of insinuations, accusations,
ejaculations. She barely
understands, but her friends smile
at one another in slinking knowledge.

She is a virgin on a wedding cake
her sugar sweet dress spread white
and buoyant, proper folds pressed
just so, little lace, a satin bow.
Her eyes brush the floor, back
and forth, her cheeks rosy red
the only acknowledgment of this
faceless groom in shiny black shoes.
She smiles for her future
as she walks the halls of public education,
arms wrapped around
the history of the world,
her mind lilting through some summer
dream: a woman, a man,
a baby dressed in lemon-yellow overalls.
She sinks into her desk,
ignores the latest gossip about
Courtney’s new disease;
the virgin hears someone singing
“Buffalo Gals won’t you come out tonight and…
dance by the light of the moon.”

She is a virgin in this working world --
Payless pumps, press-on nails, outlet fashion.
Around the water cooler, the ladies
do their tangled dance, the do-si-do
of who did what with whom and when
and where no cares for why.
She glances at them sidelong, listens
carefully to this chatter, this
realm of sweat, booze,
husky whispers in alleyways,
bars, under the stars.
She wonders at the why,
worries at the how,
whittles at the why not.
The faceless groom has not appeared,
but for one boy, pimple-faced
and panting with terror
who lured her under the bleachers
years ago to kiss her full on the lips,
his oily face pressing hers, his new
smell, savage and rich, pressing
closer still and she ran into
the fluorescent light, the drumming
of basketballs, squeaks of sneakers,
ran until she could feel winter
on her face, the comforting metal and rot
smell of dumpsters in her nose.

She is a virgin still as she speaks
in flat tones of this pregnancy by someone
else’s husband, her second love affair
after the first ended with her stalking
the man, also married.
She is saying how much she loves him,
she is saying how she forgives him,
she is saying she will keep trying
to convince him.
I see her in the night,
hugely pregnant, crouched
outside this groom’s window watching
his family eat Hamburger Helper, watching
with her virgin eye as he helps his youngest
down from the table. I see her walking
to the door, tapping politely, offering
her swollen proof of purchase
for his bewildered wife
to somehow comprehend.

I see her there
in the snow, on her knees,
all in white, rosary wound
tight around her neck,
a smile curling her
pretty mouth, pure lips.