Speaking in Tongues
There she was,
pulling cash out of an ATM,
wearing jeans, yellow halter.
It wasn’t my ATM but I pulled over.
I had never seen her alone before.
We barely knew each other,
a few hellos, dubious eyeball flirtations
in the halls of Oregon City High school two years ago.
A champion swimmer
who wore this one invisible white dress,
no underwear.
I knew all her routes around campus,
intercepting with clandestine inspections.
Fear and apprehension gripped me like a vise,
Exponentially unnerved.
She vaguely knew who I was.
This was no mere crush
like the Columbia is no mere river.
I’d written hundreds of words of lust and longing
about her in my journal the first semester of my senior year.
I’d never written like that about a girl before.
I called them Sightings as if I was on safari and she was the big fox prowling the savannah.
A few lines:
She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I guess there is a God.
Those eyes. What is it about them? I wish I knew.
There is an aura about her. It’s the presence of complete sexuality.
I would love to meet her without the high school surroundings. Will I ever get the chance?
I’ve been making discreet inquiries about her. The reports have not been promising.
We crossed paths with each other in the hall. I was walking ahead of her acutely aware of her presence,
hoping she would come up to me. She did!
We conversed at the ATM for ten minutes,
ended up in her apartment.
She drank a pint of rum and cokes in 15 minutes,
popped a pain pill stolen from her doctor father.
Loverboy played. Then Night Ranger. Journey.
She slipped off the halter and jeans.
She took off my clothes.
We ended up having sex in the bathtub (her idea)
and she started speaking in tongues.
I got her out of the tub,
put her to bed before dark,
left a nice note with my phone number.
She never called.
My first feral woman,
noir to the bone.
They make great literature (they’ll never read)
but usually burn you in the end
or so I’ve found out.
We met 30 years later at a dive bar in Portland.
She walked in wielding a cane, body wracked by MS.
She had approval from her semi-husband to fuck me.
We could use her best friend’s house in Oregon City.
I told her about the journals, she loved that.
I told her about the white dress.
She asked why I never said anything.
I told her one does not approach a Greek goddess between classes.
She really loved that.
She didn’t recall the note but did recall the afternoon.
She apologized for getting so wasted.
Her eyes still the same.
That squint that could block a total eclipse.
We had a gin and tonic each.
I walked her to a cab.
The cab drove her to the friend’s house.
She died a decade later at 56.
The online obituary never revealed the cause.
She left behind the husband, children, grandchildren.
The obituary photo unrecognizable,
even the eyes gone.
She must have chosen that photo
and I’m glad she did.
Perseverance one the best of human qualities.
Vastly underrated.
Never on display, few ever notice.
Not a single comment left on the memories section.
This poem will have to do.
I think she would have loved it.