Was it spring of 67 or 68 when we cut
class to bottle Phil’s beer? 68 because
you were out of the dorm, into that house
with the blacklight bathroom. The artist
who made all those death masks only
we were still alive. Our faces done in
plaster tape. We drank it all, didn’t we,
before graduation, the night we played
charades in the park. Phil sang so
loud the cops came and sent us home.
He married her—the artist, I can’t
remember her name. Somewhere
on the Cape. All those masks. Remember
the bonfire? Masks and class notes.
Hundreds of masks, or at least dozens.
Hanging in that bathroom. I’d like
to have one now, that plain white.
The plaster heated up after awhile.
Trusting somebody so you could breathe.
Phil was at some museum last I heard.
Maura. He and Maura didn’t last,
but we all knew they wouldn’t the way
she fooled around. The pink dotted-
swiss bridesmaid’s dress I tossed after
the wedding, and she was an artist.
Empire waists so we all looked
pregnant. I guess some of us were.
Funny you can be someone’s brides-
maid and lose touch and even forget
her name. Maura. Funny to be
with old friends and know, all
of a sudden, that we’re old.