That Girl

The public library was saying things

In so many books,

And me, Catholic boy

In a green sweater,

Was reading the same page

A hundred times.

A girl was in my way,

Protestant or Jew,

And she was at the other end

Of the oak table,

Her hands like doves

On the encyclopedia, E-G.

England, I thought,

Germany before the war?

She'll copy from that book,

Cursive like waves

Riding to the shore,

And tomorrow walk across lawns

In a public school dress

With no guilt pulling at an ear.

And me? I'll kick

My Catholic shoes through

Leaves, stand in the

Clockroom and eat

A friend's lunch. My work

Was never finished.

My maps were half-colored,

History a stab in the dark,

And fractions the inside

Of a pocket watch

Spilled on my desk.

I was no good. I blame

That girl. When she erased

And her hair bounced like a skirt,

I looked up, then returned

To my book: the Nile

Is the longest river in the world.

She clicked open her

Binder. I looked up,

Gazed, then went back down:

The Nile is the longest river. . .