We had to write these essays every September
about our adventures in faraway towns—
sleepaway camp, lakes, exotic birds, injuries—
sometimes we’d just make the stories up
because to be honest our summers sucked.
We’d hang inside the humidity of the city
stuff our faces with pizza, gulps of grape soda
but those reports needed to be filled
with action words, Ms. Larson told us,
so I made up that I found a deer in the woods
called him James, the insides of his ears
were bright turquoise, he let me ride him
by the river’s edge, we sang Beatles songs.
I never took James to the city or showed him
the marble staircase where we spent all of August
scooping up jacks on the cold steps, bounced
that little red ball between sips of blackberry wine
lifted our dresses just enough, followed the man
from apartment 5C who never spoke to anyone
down to Riverside Park, and none of us would dare say
what we let him see, even though it was dark,
nor would we write about it in September
though we could have used a lot of colorful words
might have gotten an A, but you don’t want to commit
to writing that which you’ll spend a lifetime
pretending never happened.