Yearbook Poem

When I closed the book I closed it well;
not many fingerprint smudges interrupt these pages.
Slick faces within their frames pop out of the shadows --
as I stare how asymmetrical they become!
I tilt the book back and forth in my hands
so the lamp's glare will eat away at their features.

It was late spring and the dizzying halls
thunder a swarm of bees in my ears.
The blur of students sign away
in the grass, against walls, or against friends' backs,
their pens aimed like darts.
Their words are carelessly curved,
smeared, often unreadable,
and more often too familiar to be memorable.

Yet they tangle together like poison ivy across each page,
every letter rubbing like a blister.
My high school years twist in my throat and creep to my tongue
as my eyes search the photographs
and fill in what the shadows leave out.