A little slow and thick around the waist,
she was fond of wading in the muck.
Always late, she would walk into class,
then take her place behind a nerd or geek.
Freckled and blonde, and masculine of shoulder,
she looked like Butkus ready for the grid,
and yet her soft blue eyes betrayed a dancer,
the Isadora Duncan of tenth grade.
I was the quiet boy who sat up front,
who weighed his words and loathed all cruelty,
and yet one day I spoke and made her hurt.
The name I gave her chased her through the hallway,
followed her home, and everywhere she moved,
down the decades and into the grave.