Banana Girl

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Banana Girl by Steve Almond      

You all remembered banana girl, the sheer improbable length of her,

the way she peeled herself from place to place; especially you.

She is the kind of girl, your father would say

then not finish his sentence.

Her hairs flossed your teeth and her smell bearded you

and all of her — the rubbery limbs flung open,

the flushed spaces in between — left your hands confused,

like a magician’s assistant not sure of the act.

Because she knew the drug that it is to be wanted and shunned

and then wanted again, you became — whatever else

might be said — just a painted number on the wheel

she spun, flesh catching spirit.

But remember: it was all a big joke. Remember: she was Banana Girl.

She was just, she was no one, some part of yourself

left behind on that mattress on that floor in the garage,

where the old tools hung in a dim camphor mist.

So that, really, there was no reason for you to miss her

for the rest of your life, to miss anything,

as if you had actually changed, as if your father had looked

upon you in sorrow and said nothing.


Steve Almond and Nerve.com