August heat rises from the river.
The girl tells her parents she’s at a friend’s
then crosses the state line into Ohio,
brings a bottle of vodka to spike
her Slushy, beelining for the football party,
the boy she likes in the basement.
She sips another drink down in the basement,
the summer night rushing like a river
of stars, fifty kids crushing into the party,
bright and free at sixteen. Her friend
hands her a red Solo cup of ice spiked
with Smirnoff, a favorite in Ohio
where they live for football, for Ohio
victory, Roll Red Roll chanted at the party,
chanted at the stadium, boys spiking
the pigskin, smashing their bodies, the river
inscrutable at the edge of town. Her friends
want to bounce to another party.
She still remembers leaving that party,
following the boy, a hero in Ohio,
his teammates in tow and maybe her friends.
People say she threw up in the basement.
People say she threw up on the curb. The river
is silent as the car glides past, spikes
of willow leaves floating in murk. Trace a spike
in uncertain events after the party:
she wakes beneath a blanket, cloudy as the river,
not back home but naked in Ohio,
freaking out on a couch in a stranger’s basement
missing her panties, her phone, her friends.
The court will call on the testimony of friends.
The girl, Jane Doe, says someone spiked
her drink. Was she blackout-drunk on the basement
floor or passed-out-drunk like a whore at the party?
The boys carried her out, the pride of Ohio.
There are photos and videos, a river
of pixels. One was the quarterback, a party
bro, sharing her body with friends in Ohio—
spikes circle the basement, sink in the river.
