PATRICIA CLARK

MY ABERGLAUBE

Certain names and faces         refuse to fade—
my mother in the living room         her cheeks wet,
the news announcer saying     the priest had been killed
by a drunk driver;         and a pale girl in grade school,
Mary Fink, her house looped         inside with streamers
for a party no one in my class

PATRICIA CLARK

MY ABERGLAUBE

Certain names and faces         refuse to fade—
my mother in the living room         her cheeks wet,
the news announcer saying     the priest had been killed
by a drunk driver;         and a pale girl in grade school,
Mary Fink, her house looped         inside with streamers
for a party no one in my class came to except for me—
The day Bob Nelson pressed me         up against a car
a wet exchange of tongues         thrill of him hard
against me. The Youth Dew         perfume my sister Jean
said would attract boys.         Dresses I wore, one
with small polka dots,         a shirtwaist, blue.
All Tacoma, gray forgotten         streets, the hills where
the Chevy lost its brakes         6th Ave, K Street—
    Belief in those beyond the certain and verifiable.came to except for me—
The day Bob Nelson pressed me         up against a car
a wet exchange of tongues         thrill of him hard
against me. The Youth Dew         perfume my sister Jean
said would attract boys.         Dresses I wore, one
with small polka dots,         a shirtwaist, blue.
All Tacoma, gray forgotten         streets, the hills where
the Chevy lost its brakes         6th Ave, K Street—
    Belief in those beyond the certain and verifiable.