Free Exposed by Kimberly Marcus

hearing Kate’s news from Kate.
    Before I can say “That’s great,”
Amanda’s mouth moves again.
“Anyway, I gotta go. I was supposed to be making a quick trip
to the bathroom and then I saw you and if I don’t hurry up my
bladder will burst and it won’t be pretty.”
    My head throbs listening to her,
but my heart feels lighter.

Baby Steps
     
    I’m at my desk
looking over the stuff from Parsons
when the phone rings.
My mother calls to me from the kitchen,
“Lizzie! Pick up. It’s Mike.”
    He’s been back at school for two weeks now,
we haven’t talked since the trial,
and I reread a sentence about dorm life four times
before picking up the phone.
    “Hey,” I say,
in a bad attempt to sound casual.
“Hey,” he says back,
and there’s too long a pause until he adds,
“Congrats on getting in.”
    I tell him “Thanks,”
trying to push from my brain
an image of him running through the door,
picking me up from behind, spinning me around
in a fit of brotherly pride.
    There’s another pause before he says,
“Well, I gotta get going.”
    I say, “Okay, bye.”
The line goes dead.
    And I’m left feeling
things I can’t explain
because I’m not sure
how to be his sister anymore.
    I don’t know how to forgive him,
especially since he doesn’t think
he did anything wrong.
    And I’m not sure he forgives me
for not believing him.
    Maybe someday we’ll sit
across from one another
in some therapist’s office
and try to find a way to be okay.
But I’m not willing to do that yet,
and neither is he.
    At least that’s one thing
we can agree on.

Pomp and Circumstance
     
    As I walk to the podium,
I hear the familiar sound
of my father’s “Wahoo!”
even though people were asked
to hold their applause
until the last diploma is given.
    I get back to my seat,
between Jacob Gorman and Stephanie Griggs,
four years of my life on my lap
in an embossed, padded folder.
    When they call out “Brian Joseph Kent,”
he holds his diploma high over his head
then gives me that smile and a thumbs-up
as he passes my row.
    I nod and smile back,
my heart warming a bit as my hand
touches the spot, just below the base of my neck,
where our palm tree rests.

“Katherine Cecily Morgan”
     
    Who will be her maid of honor?
Which friend will hold her baby first?
Who will sit beside her
on a summer porch swing,
when hairs gray and memories start to fade,
and remind her that she was once
The Mistress of Modern Dance,
Photogirl’s forever-best?
    Not me.
It won’t be me.

Memorial Day
     
    I’m sitting on the stone jetty at Bright Penny
holding my brand-new Canon,
a graduation gift from Mom and Dad.
    It’s warmer than usual for this time of year
and the first hints of summer,
in bathing suits and stark white skin,
make their way onto the beach.
    I’m panning the shoreline,
not really looking for a great shot,
just enjoying the feel of this new,
familiar object in my hands.
    Through the lens someone catches my eye
and I worry, once I know I’ve been spotted,
that she’ll think I was aiming at her.
    Kate holds a book in her right hand;
a light green towel hangs around her shoulders.
    She doesn’t come over,
doesn’t put her towel down,
but clutches it to her chest with her free hand,
like she’s protecting herself from the wind
or maybe from me.
    I want to tell her I’m sorry,
sorry she got hurt,
sorry for so many things.
    I want to remind her that she once said,
“Everything lives on through history.”
And let her know that I think
that means the good stuff, too.
    But she won’t be able to hear me.
She’s too far away.
    So I stand
and walk
toward her.

This Girl
     
    She doesn’t run off,
though her eyes tell me
she wonders if she should.
    “Hi,” I say, once I reach her,
gripping on to my camera like a lifeboat.
    Then, in a rush of words that tumble like waves,
I tell her I’m sorry about the trial,
sorry that she had to go through that.
    She looks past me toward the water,
as if she’s searching for