Damn, the girls I knew when I was twenty.
We ran in packs like careless, hungry wolves
Taunting the boundaries of our dizzy, man swarmed city.
The come and go of faces on the IRT
Crowding the uptown local at Astor Place.
I don't remember the shrill of car horns
Or the ambulances shrieking down Second Avenue.
No, I remember the dense quiet of Thursdays
Sitting on a stoop on Saint Marks Place
Or the cool marble of hallways in August
As the girls answered the doorbell in bare feet.
Nineteen, and Seventeen, and tag-along Sixteen
Ruling the world from a park bench in Washington Square.
Of course they had names; Kate, Michelle, Annabel,
Sarah. But I knew them by scents, by movements.
I learned from them of the softness in all women
The glance up from down turned faces, the stirring
Of legs in skirts, with knees clasped while sitting
Boy-cut hair, held in plastic barrettes,
Dyed black as city soot, or snowy platinum
Held with pomade in cunning twists, or spiked
Liked barbed wire, or soft bangs covering eyes.
On hazy afternoons in autumn cafes, sitting
Legs crossed, conversing like giggling scholars,
Their eyes would dart like cats prowling
Seeking mice, or mates, as their thoughts took shape.
Annabel's dark eyes, or Kate's slate blue
And Michelle's that were soft with delicious brooding.
Freckled arms pushed a comb through bleached hair
Legs in ripped tights and combat boots
Antique dresses in pastels, or vibrant green,
As green as the park in joyous June.
Sometimes I would drop some little thing
A comb or my wallet or a punk band badge
So I could maneuver in the thing's recovery
To bring me nearer to the scent of musk. Or lavender.
Or the rustle of old crinoline, aged fabric
Faded by time, forgotten, then salvaged and loved
Again, as only a girl of seventeen can love:
Adoringly, recklessly, with fervor, abandon. A dress
Smoothed, stitched by supple fingers grown
Deft with plying marbles, with cupping secrets
Whispered through pomade caked hair.
A dress from a forsaken thrift-shop shelf, newly shaped
To the curves and freckled secrets of Tag-Along Sixteen.
All I know now of desire and heartache, and I know
Much, of recalling the scent of lavender and musk,
All I know of how I ache when, in bright Autumn,
A breeze plays with a skirt, a freckled woman
Smoothes her hem, clasps restless fingers,
Looks, eyes bright, through falling hair, and smiles,
All I know of conversations in marble floored cafes
Where the waitress speaks no English, and girls whisper,
I learned when I was twenty, from girls
Whose softness and lavender wasn't meant for me.