USA

campbellholt@aol.com 

On the Plane Home from High School

If I were to construct my life with you
to place conversations in boxes,
I'd have to begin with varsity basketball and Ethan
and days when I knew you before you had given me a name.

Isn't it funny how the long nights later on, when we danced and drove
Become traffic jams in my mind:
"Freedom" in a madras dress (me) spinning on a vodka tonic
and the first time you kissed me after I missed the bus.

Six hour talks blur with sophomore mornings in the snack bar.
(Alice and I sip mocha) "Love in an Elevator" on the juke box
We watch you study and pretend to be busy.
And I can hardly picture your face.

The day you left to drive across the country,
I called you from a cell phone in Central Park,
felt as if somewhere on the Pennsylvania Turnpike you might
have a vision of me, and need a voice to go with.

10 months later, I make a trip,
and we have a drink. And the fact that I am no longer 16
doesn't seem to blur your lust.
We are, after all, finally alone.

Your friends have gone off to conquer the world,
and you are mine to dissect.
We begin with gossip
before wandering to us, (you explain earlier skittishness).

And I have 5 hours and 32 minutes to dwell on an hour walk up Mason,
six years of conversations and long drives. I do not recognize
the confident girl who said goodbye
to you in the hotel lobby using your full name.

© Copyright, 2000, Moriah Campbell-Holt.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.