His parents were sending him somewhere he didn’t want to go

We were in 8th grade and Dennis didn’t want to go 

into the seminary next year, 

though he looked like the type of boy 

who ended up there—fair hair already thin 

and splintered at 13–

surely he’d be bald by twenty–

and he was chubby. 

I thought who cares if they make him

go—no girl will want to marry him. 

I think now he might have liked me 

in that queasy boyish way because he played 

so many pranks 

and isn’t that how boys that age 

show their love? 

He had 5 brothers and I had a crush on the oldest —handsome Paul— 

already in high school. 

I would call his home just to hear his voice 

and hang up when he said, hello.

I heard on TV that his father had a hard time untying 

Dennis from the closet rod where he was hanging 

from his own necktie. 

In Catholic school, boys had to wear suit 

and ties to Mass 

so Dennis surely had a few. 

The rumor was his brothers wept and 

wouldn’t return to school for weeks. 

Paul met me in the park one Saturday 

and still could barely talk. 

We sat side by side on a wooden bench. 

I hoped he‘d hold my hand, daydreamed even 

of a kiss. 

But I could smell his sweat, 

see his brown eyes open

yet blind. 

He didn’t want to go.

That’s all Paul said. 

I feel shame now that I brought 

my 8th grade graduation photo to show him. 

Hoped he would call me pretty, ask

 if he could keep it. 

I tried different ways, believe me, 

to get his attention.

But he was weak from no sleep.

So I gave up and 

sat quietly beside him, 

thinking about Dennis. 

His round face and dumb laugh. 

And remembered the last time I saw him. 

How he ran up to me outside school and 

grabbed my books and stuffed them all

into a mail box. 

I wailed at him, Dennis Glouster!

You’re gonna wind up in a cemetery 

before you ever get to a seminary!

I wish I could say grief stuck in my throat. 

But it didn’t. 

I thought only of the irony. 

And opened my mouth to tell Paul 

but shut it quickly, remembering

It is a sin to speak ill of the dead. 

And so we sat there, the silence 

of our breathing hovering over 

that park bench. 

Me in love with him, he in love 

with Dennis.