I know it’s October because I wearshoes without socks. The air is goodto me & I sweat less through my shirts.Entire days of trees on campus, of stray geesecrowding the grass near the trafficcircle like groupies, as ifthe honking cars were a rock band.It’s October & Keith, my high schoolcrush, waves from the backof the classroom. I have no idea whyhe’s here, the radiator hissingat his back, except the cliché of boyswho always return from where they’veleft, like Odysseus but lessplagued by spring & the sea, the mis-understanding of his nature but I neverasked him & now something insideme shifts off balance even thoughmy stomach’s been twistedfor hours but I’m so hopped upon coffee & Midol that I have no pointof view & the afternoon becomes a moodtilting toward Keith like shifting weightfrom one foot to the other, he isobnoxiously here & he fuckedmy older sister, I am just nowremembering, though this was a fewyears ago & long after the day I’dtagged along to go apple picking,dirt from the groves stillin my nails late at nightwhen my sister asked if I’d everkissed anyone. I was just beginningfreshman year, working to get my timedown for swim team where I’d spent summerditching birthdays & the ice creamtruck’s persuasive tune to practicethe butterfly & freestyle & learning to diveless crooked, which was going as wellas expected until Andrewsat next to me on the busride home from the pool during tryouts,his chlorine-dried hand on my shouldera little too long without asking when he askedmy name & he has a crush on yousaid my friend Becca while fakinga gagging sound in her throat. I said yeseven though I hadn’t kissed anyone & maybethis was my first true poem, lyingto my sister in support of love, stealing imageryfrom the books I’d read in the libraryto avoid the cafeteria: a girl at campgets fingered in the lake. A girl goesmissing & is happy beinggone, a little grateful, even. Even beforeShakespeare & Lavinia, Ovid & Philomela,I believed dead girlslived eternally as trees & on bad-weather nights their leaves flew intothe gutters, choking the rain pipes:fishing-boats against the moon,wrote Woolf on grief;giant artichokes towered among roses.The world can be the saddest fish tank.In the orchard my sister throws an appleat me then flirts with Keith.In class his arm meansnothing as I studyadmiration, glancing at the girlthree desks ahead who I had seenat parties, the kind where all the boyswear V-necks with tight jeans & play musicin bands, smoke weed in the kitchen, controllingthe music, yelling lyrics into a kindof oblivion, spilling beer on whoeverthey’ve grabbed to dance while I watchher from my spot against the fridgeas she lights a cigarette & is effort-lessly cool in her black tuxedo vest, takinga break from University but keeping upon credits. She gets invitedto the Stone Pony in Asbury Parkon weeknights to listento the boys play their out-of-tuneguitars & she alreadyread The Bell Jar, she tells our professorwho adjusts the volumefor the projector & I am writingin my notebook: read The Bell Jar.We have just finisheda unit on poetry & are moving onto prose. The professor shuts the lights& a woman stands dead-center on a spot-lit stage withoutan audience because it would have beenimpossible, she says, for a woman to havewritten the plays of Shakespearein the age Shakespearehad written. I writethis down in my notebookbecause Judith could not & the girlfrom the party who has already readThe Bell Jar is staringout the window while Keithrests his head in the warmthof his palm & Andrew rides the busto the swim meet where I didn’tmake the cut & Beccahas just found out I had sexbefore her & she’s callingme a slut & my sister sinksher teeth into the appleas the geese applaudfrom the lawn & the professor does notteach us that seven days beforeWoolf marries she finishesthis novel & in Octoberreads it over todecide whether it isto go straight into Hell.