We’re
at the party. Aimee’s cats—
it’s her party—are going bonkers, ambushing
bright colored balls of thread that move
only when swatted
by their paws. This
fascinates them. We chat
about the class we share—our teacher
describes Joan of Ark’s burning
with a gleam in his eye. It’s like
he’s there, in Rouen, examining
her, watching parts of her melt away, not
out of place among the onlookers. What
a freak!—not my silly crush on you.
Adam breezes by. We
talk to him. There’s Dave, he knows
Aimee
better than you. I
stand there, speak close to Dave, face you.
You shout over the music
to Adam—It’s party geometry:
“Aimee—can you believe
it!—found
a perfectly good picture—
Picture!—of oranges
in the dumpster!”
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