We spent half of eighth grade
wondering who in our class was blond
We didn’t mean those with hair as light as
the wheat that grew on the outskirts of town
the prairie grass scorched dry from summer heat
We meant a word too big for our hometown
More cows than people, but
We prided ourselves on having a Walmart Supercenter
Our seventh grade teacher’s son went blond at college
And our moms brought casseroles and prayers
Hushed whispers, an unspoken word
It was the only funeral without a dead man
Your brother drove ninety coming back from school
Windows down, Alabama blaring
We clutched each other
As he went over the pothole by the Miller’s farm
Hair tangled, hands intwined, ankles crossed
I wondered if your cheeks were flushed for another reason
I know mine were
We know the answers now we wished for
Desperately, at thirteen:
Billy married a man and moved to Chicago
Janie from two grades up goes by John now
And you, of course, you
I keep your wedding picture in my bedside drawer
Even though you’re both too beautiful to look at
She was such a nice little girl, my mom says
Over dry turkey and gravy like sludge
It’s just such a shame she went astray
Watching my husband cut our daughter’s food to bite-sized pieces
I don’t say a word
Her poor parents barely show their faces, she continues
You’re not the one who should be ashamed
Not when I still say blond