I sit in bed writing,
hearing crows in the distance,
A pitcher of Casa Blanca lilies
on the chest, almost too sweet,
the way women sometimes are.
The ones in school who said,
“I failed, I know I did.”
The female message
they do not speak:
be less to be loved.
Of course, the girls
who said that never failed.
But always succeeded in
turning your attention to them,
so you never had time to think
about your own performance.
I never got that game,
Good Friday, decades later
I still don’t.

4/14/06