The Girls Become – by John Foulcher
RUNNER-UP IN THE GWEN HARWOOD POETRY PRIZE 2022
Scarlett
Scarlett Kate O’Mara joined us in her final year.
We were told to make no jokes about her almost name –
she’d had enough of southern drawls, glib confederate
quips. Elegant and tall, she clipped the smitten boys
like trinkets round her wrist, loaded up her pistol smile
and locked it on their hearts. On the last chaotic day
when everyone dissolved in tears, Scarlett took her shot
of marks and swayed away to modelling – more money
than you’ll know. Two weeks later, driving home,
she cat-walked into sleep, slammed into a four-tonne truck.
Then the rushed assembly, the resurrected tears.
Beneath the dismal stillness, though, the whispers
were of consequence. The jokes came thick and fast.
Ella
Ella loiters at her locker: Someone’s put these things
in with my stuff, miss – used tampon and a note:
you derty bich, you get your hands off him. Thuggery
without a name. They’re jealous of me, miss, ’cause
Matt loves me not them. I wade a bog of rumours,
nothing leads to nothing. Then the threats turn
really tart: someone pisses in her bag; a slew
of deadly texts. There’s a swell of artless pity,
a trickle of suspicion at the drama of it all.
I check her workbook, check the spelling, check
the texts. A scatter of mistakes, breadcrumbs
dropped along a path: Shakespears full of derty stuff.
I talk of words and errors, warn the girls
that each new note is quicksand for its author.
The threats dry up. She cuts her losses, leaves.
Someone finds her books, discarded in a urinal.
Rose
Her parents always absent, she fell to thin,
dishevelled crimes, snatched at crumbs of fatter lives;
stood downcast in the dock, where portly law
dispensed to her a fair behaviour bond. Beneath
the sleight of stifled sobs, she mumbled cool
contrition, but soon the months were piling up.
Alone and broke at Woolworths, the auto teller
barring her from cash she didn’t have, she ripped apart
the pleasure dome, the aisles measureless to man,
slashed the frantic check-out chick, who huddled
underneath the till… Standing there outside herself,
she smiled for the camera, brushing back her hair.
Katie
Absent in my office, Katie’s mother slumps.
Katie’s just a slither, as faint as an aroma.
Mum stews on her guilt, forks over things
she said or didn’t say. But they make their peace
about what she’ll eat and shake on it. Then
some phones go missing from the locker room.
The proper girls saw Katie there. Her friends send
loyalty back to the chef, they’ve had a gutful,
evidence piles on her plate. I warn her about
the real world. She tells me we can all get fucked
but the phones come back. There’s not much
to say. She picks at humble pie and sits outside
while I talk with Mum, but there’s not much to say.
Mum’s cooked her up a job at Maccas. We make
our peace and they go, nibbling at the years ahead.
Ava
At first she didn’t seem to care, and neither
did the other girls – no one dies in real life.
Then the mumbling, clumsy steps, the crutches
by her desk. Even that seemed fantasy, until
the clutch of missing hours, the hospital retreats,
the hand-knit woollen hats, the bruises
round her eyes. Still she came to sporting days,
wheeling through the marathon. Still she huddled
in exams, rolled the pen around her palm,
scrawled what few words came to her. Borne
when she was breath, loved when she was ash,
she slipped away just days from grad. I called
her name regardless. Nothing crossed the stage.
Most, though
Most, though, make it through.
They cross the stage, take my hand,
hold their futures like bouquets,
the numbers adding up to joy
or second choices. Some flounce
like cover girls, others pace like brides.
Some take ginger steps, some rush
and blubber unashamed. Some are
somewhere else. Everything is gone,
everything’s to come. All this
should be plenty, but standing
in the limelight here, I’m sentenced by
the shadows, watching as the girls become.
Image: Eic Parker
This poem appeared in Island 164 in 2022. Order a print issue here.
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