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I left at dawn before her father could catch me. Tonight she is out later than usual, hurrying home alone. I am across the street, lurking in the shadow of a tree when I notice the van again. This is the second time it has driven by and the driver seems very interested in the girl. I watch with growing concern as the van parks under a burned out street light a block ahead of the girl. Silently I merge with the night and keep pace with the girl, she doesn’t seem to be aware of the van and walks quickly towards it. I can see the driver, he is watching the girl’s reflection intently through his mirror and adjusts it to get a better view. The girl is oblivious. The hair on the back of me neck stands on end as the girl reaches the van and I feel dread knot up in my gut, something is not right, I know it. Just as the girl is about to pass the van the driver gets out and asks the girl a question, I creep closer, invisible and silent. As the girl shakes her head and starts to walk on the. Y, talked of her books Live or Die and Love Poems and then read ‘That Awful Rowing Toward God.’ From the nods of the people surrounding me I could tell it was good, for me it was simply incredible. Of course she could have been reading from the phone book and I’d have liked it, the way she’d unconsciously toy with the button on her blouse as she read, letting it slip open in the final line of a poem. After the reading I headed out of the auditorium, but being unfamiliar with the old, hallowed halls of the English Department, I looked for a restroom and got lost in a maze of small offices and tiny classrooms. I heard some talking coming from one and wandered in, quietly sitting in a seat at the back of the room. I was mesmerized as Anne read, losing myself in her works, in the way she moved and in the way her blouse’s buttons, one by one somehow came undone. Before long it was just her and I, I was in my underwear, she wore only her bra and a half-slip. Each poem now was just another.
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