It Was Definitely Dada
In 1967 the boys at St. Joe's
had a game they played
every Friday afternoon
during Chemistry class.
One whistled low,
while another hissed out a name,
and then slowly they'd all
edge backwards or
forwards
or sideways
in their desks
homing in
on the chosen one,
reaching under him
from all sides,
like they would under a hen
to collect her eggs
only they were grabbing at body parts instead,
all the roundnesses a boy tries his best to hide.
And the boy tried what he could
to evade the pain of the squeeze
until desk after desk
came crashing down in a heap
and Sister Robert Jeannette
jumped up on her chair
like a two year old having a tantrum.
By the time the principal got there
things were calm
and of course we all denied it,
even in the face of detention,
looking so stunned and hurt and studious,
that the poor nun often backed down,
throwing up her hands.
After all it had happened so fast
it was more like a dream.
We girls were in awe of
these terrible maneuvers
and not a little afraid of what
they could cook up next
if the spirit moved them.
And so chose to ignore them in the halls,
suddenly too busy
talking to each other
about ironing our hair
or pale pinking our lips
so they'd all but disappear.
We circled our eyes
with heavy black liner
to shut out fear
and when one of them approached,
practiced a morgue-like silence.
Girls as pale as cadavers,
too stubborn in our innocence
to notice Vietnam
with its insatiable hunger,
Johnson's talk of the lottery
he was about to set
like a boy trap
just outside of the high school doors.
We watched them hit the floor
and missed that it was art entirely:
Dada, as a matter of fact,
a reaction, a sign, a warning
which might have prepared us
for the next few years
which were definitely surreal.
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