Catholic School Girls

   
Pretty polka dot bows    
And buckskin shoes    
Scuffed knees    
From field hockey    
Blistered feet    
From ballet    
   
The age of innocence?    
Far from it.    
Rather the age that forged    
mean girls forever.    
   
Where are they now?    
   
Two carat rings    
And a Maserati?    
Waxed legs    
In Camuto?    
Rocking their new tummy tuck:      
Go on, take a photo!    
   
Where are they now?    
   
On welfare or in rehab?    
Working retail or    
Too entitled to make a living?    
Pregnant with no father    
Or drunk every night at thirty?    
I have to look harder . . .    
   
Where are they now?    
   
Still attending Mass    
Or mocking those who do    
Or cutting themselves with tattoos    
(Like they once cut with safety pins?)    
Depressed and a mess?    
Or still flawless?    
   
Where are they now?    
Where are they now?    
   
When I see an old alumn,    
I refuse to claim affinity:    
Instead I watch    
Them drown in hypocrisy.    
   
Mean girl,    
You were a clever actress.    
"The humble saint!"    
I knew better.    
I knew hate.    
   
I do not write to one of you    
But all of you    
From the trophy wife    
To the low life --    
   
There was a time    
we were all the same    
The ugly flannel skirt    
and abrasive blazer    
But we were never the same    
Were we?    
   
I had what you had:    
   
Dance lessons    
Tennis camp    
Riding horses    
Running races    
Guitar jams    
Theatre spaces    
   
But I was not you.    
   
The school itself made her.    
The mean girl.    
You were born in a vat    
Of unholy water and    
Envy spit venom.    
I was the grease    
Left forgotten on the stove.    
   
I was you but not you    
In truth better than you.    
But you'll never know    
Because God knows    
I'll die before attending    
The next reunion.   
   
Instead I'll amuse myself of thoughts    
Of you spilling out    
Of your too-small spirit shirts    
Bearing your graduation year    
Reminiscing on days    
When you ran the school . . .    
   
You were a wonderful mean girl.    
But you didn't play for the long run.    
Not like me.    
Now when you cross paths with me    
(Acting like we're old chums)    
And say "remember me?!"    
I say I have no idea.    
   
I like having you look    
like the desperate idiot.    
   
I'll tell you what you are to me:    
Faith fallen and with nothing to show    
But ribbon bows you've long outgrown.