They come back tan–
taller and buzzing
from Florida or the islands.
The few who went nowhere bought self tanner,
and have spent the morning hiding
orange streaked shins
and sacrilegiously pale palms.
They herd through the halls–
fillies stomping and flowering,
wild and zinging.
They shout to each other across lunch tables
overflowing with fries, ketchup blood spats
and venti Starbucks cups filled pink.
In the bathroom they interrupt the purgers–
girls with too much inside
who crook a pure white acrylic down their throats
to undo sugar-clumped worms, Coke, fluorescent chips–
to scrape themselves clean.
They don’t recognize how safe they are here–
how freely they are allowed to love,
with no conditions imposed yet
by the world, or boy’s eyes,
or mens’ hands.
Their ignorance is stunning–
a remarkable kind of beauty
that glistens in the fading chapel light–
as they each kneel before God on a Tuesday afternoon
promising to be good forever.