by Lynne Schmidt
I wonder if his wife remembers
his rampage in undergrad—
the moment he came out of the bathroom
and proclaimed his conquest of a new transfer
and received a line of high fives like
the Friday night football tunnel.
If he told his wife
how this young girl,
scrambling for new friends,
came out of the bathroom
too inebriated to walk, fell
like a stage dive into hands that
were willing high five him,
but fail to catch her.
Stitches from a wall on her face,
a souvenir, just above her eyebrow.
If he told his wife,
before they had children
and she posted all of their happy pictures together,
him and his infant daughter,
how many scars
he gave the other girls in the dorm.
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