Posts Tagged ‘ditching class’





Not that anyone caught us,

but that was the day

when Marnie and I


cut school during sixth hour

and drove my old VW bug

to the undeveloped hills


just past the edge of town.

Nothing grew there but grass

and wide open emptiness.


She’d bought some No Doz,

and though we were already

wildly alive and awake,


taking them seemed a good idea.

I don’t remember what class

I ditched—perhaps French IV,


which could explain why to this day

I cannot remember the plusque

parfait—but I recall


how barren the hills were,

their syntax of winter dry grass,

still brown, and how we ran


as fast as we could chasing

nothing we could see

as the wind grabbed the laughter


from our mouths and flung it

past the barbed wire fences,

past the highway that circled our town


until we lay at last down

and stared at the sky

conjugating the clouds


until the sun was spent

and we were cold.

No one ever asked


where we’d gone. No one

noticed the grass still

stuck in our hair,


the sky still clinging

to our clothes, the absence

of bells in our blood.




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