Blond

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