A little slow and thick around the waist,
she was fond of wading in the muck.
Always late, she would walk into class,
then take her place behind a nerd or geek.
Freckled and blonde, and masculine of shoulder,
she looked like Butkus ready for the grid,
and yet her soft blue eyes betrayed a dancer,
the Isadora Duncan of tenth grade.
I was the quiet boy who sat up front,
who weighed his words and loathed all cruelty,
and yet one day I spoke and made her hurt.
The name I gave her chased her through the hallway,
followed her home, and everywhere she moved,
down the decades and into the grave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
If only we could leave behind the thoughtless comments of our youth, made without malice, but just too close to the mark. Great Poem.