Leola     1946   (1/7/09)

She smelled of mildew,
wore long stiff dresses
buttoned tight against her throat.
Spent recess writing reports
on the 117 books she’d read that year,
carefully closing the “O,”
lifting the “L” in Leola.

Sat tense at her desk
like a fawn startled by footsteps.
Never bent to flip a spitball,
look sideways at a boy.
We passed our notes around her,
whispered through her
as though she wasn’t there.

Then one morning she reached back,
slipped me the page she’d torn
from the library copy of  Life.
Jane Russell in Outlaw!
Sultry red lips, long legs leaping
from Daisy Mae shorts,
uplift bra with shaded cleavage.
Asked me to keep it in my Civics’ folder.
By our tenth reunion she was dead.

I often wonder
who she was that day,
alone in the library,
as she tasted the red on her mouth,
felt the sun
lay his warm hand on her leg,
looked down,
undid one button,
then another.