Too young, they decided, and lined up
the high school at the yellow buses
and took them to the funeral
when Annie died.
Decapitated, we whispered
left behind on the soccer field,
when the cable across the plant gate
sheared off the top of her head,
and we imagined her body lying
tight in that coffin, headless.
Joy riding, we heard, drawn up high
on the transmission hump—
we knew where teenage girls rode—
in that red and white Imperial,
pageboy streaming,
her mouth a bright streak.
It didn’t happen that way, Olga said,
that poor beat-up girl found someone kind to her,
took her for a ride, he’s dead too,
Why’s this story about you?
