memory

The Joy Harjo festival that seemed to cascade across the net, now manifest on Wood s lot, made me think about the girl who introduced me to her poetry.

It was the only time I’ve flirted with the idea of a Lolita thing. I thought she was in her mid-twenties, which didn’t bother me. It turned out she was 19. She got married a little while after we met, so nothing ever happened but conversation. By the time she divorced only two or three months later, I had come to my senses.

But she had some potential as a poet, the piece above is just a bit of high school juvenilia, written oddly enough when she lived on Coleridge street. If she ever stops smoking so much dope, she might become a good poet yet. She does know what good poetry is. I thought there were roses tattooed on her arm, but she corrected me. They were gardenias, the sad and beautiful flower of Billie Holliday. And that’s what she was. A sad and beautiful flower. She had a dog just like Shauna's. I'm more of a cat person.

She used to proofread my stories. She gave me good advice. Her husband used to beat her. I really didn't like that, but she told me that she beat him back. We worked in the same place for a while, but I was fired. It was the only time in my life I've ever been fired.

I take that back. I was fired once before, on December 23rd as I recall. Merry Christmas. It turned out okay; I had a job again within two hours. However, when I was fired from the job where I worked with this girl, I just borrowed to stay in school. I haven't worked since, that is, until I start teaching next semester.

I wonder where she is right now?