And how was it to be eighteen
and innocent as hell, and who
wasn’t disguised then, in the grey
medieval town, red gown wrapped
tight around each one. Flying
down Hepburn gardens on a bike,
shillings in the meter, sherry (dry)
with Kay McIver before Sunday
lunch. We didn’t have a clue—
babies spouting politics, downing
wine, sucking menthol cigarettes,
I tell you, we knew to pretend. And
how beautiful, like apples, we were,
polished, shining, intact still, skin
glistening, each heart beating out
its own fierce tattoo. Yet how ugly
when threatened. And how silly
to think the masks could hold.
But sweet—let’s not discount
the sweetness—one windblown
afternoon, Johnny and me
on top of Saint Rule’s tower, dark
beer, sharp cheese, pristine sky
above, tiny world at our feet
(buses, Market Street, graves,
cobbles), and nothing to stop us.
From How They Fell
By Annie Boutelle
Leave a Reply