Girlfriends

by Kim Addonizio

Girlfriends

by Kim Addonizio

Now we’re older we know who’s gotten sober
or been bitten by God or chewed and discarded
under a dirty bus shelter and who’s gone under
the scalpel or chemo and sunk into their bones
or the waves, who became what they dreamed
of becoming, finally, then self-destructed
or didn’t, whose children turned violently
schizophrenic or casually moved away
too far or never left home or were never
born, who wrote long, passionate letters
and then e-mails to keep in touch,
a few are still near, we remember so much
about the times we were together
peeing in a field of wildflowers or floating
naked in a swimming pool or downriver under
the gauzy blue Pleiades or phoning late
at night to spill some urgent news or blunder
or walking down a highway, thumbs out to cars
of men who might kill us or worse
but never did, bumming smokes from men in bars
with packs already in our purses,
throwing up drinks in the bathroom, putting on
fresh makeup and whirling back out into the night
that was going to last forever, but never did, a con
like the love we wanted and never got except
from each other, keeping our vows, keeping in touch,
though we never (but should have) so much
as kissed each other, hard, on the mouth.