Wild Oats

Was she the only one who never learned
to play pusoy, pusoy dos, tong-its,
pekwa?
Who didn’t know what to do
when the girl next to her tossed back shiny
shampooed hair, passed her a joint and laughed
a tinkly laugh, saying Don’t worry, it’s just
like smoking paper
? Next to her, a boy
industriously bridging the distance between
knee and groin. Bodies threading spaces
edging tables mouthing songs all with
the same lyrics: Babybaby I can lick
your overactive sadness and we’ll count
the gaudy birds that fly out of the disco
ball. Did she regret not bringing her beat-
up copy of The Histories of Herodotus or
The Stranger? She doesn’t remember how
that night ended, who edited their docudrama,
how she ended up in the photograph on a divan,
arms curled around her like pale ampersands.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Sad party.

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