MANVILLE AND THE FALLING STAR

         to Billy Collins

Manville Borne was a boy that every
boy wanted to be. Blond and popular, 
Mr. Something on the football team. 
Not just a jock but gentlemanly and
generous, his mind as fit as his body. 
His eyes sparkled and basically, he
could do no wrong. Or if he did, he
could keep it a secret. As you can tell,
I was in love with him. Not just
walking-by-his-locker-and-sighing
in love, but the kind of in love a girl 
works herself into over her handsome
boy neighbor. Thinking of him in his 
crowded house, bumping into so many
brothers and sisters and parents and 
dogs and piles of clothes and just 
being all-American in the best ways.
Tossing the football, going hunting,
doing his homework, taking care
of the dog. And then he was gone, 
off to college where they always go
to become even more all-American 
than they were before. And Manville,
though unique, was no different. 

So, I was surprised to see him at the
Homecoming game my senior year  
though I shouldn’t have been—half
of his siblings were still in school—
and even more surprised when 
he walked up to me and said
You look beautiful, Suzanne, and 
then kissed me on the cheek. Kissed me!
On the cheek. It was a polite, 
neighborly, stupefying kiss – 
more extraordinary than the ones
I dreamed of while staring
out from my dormer window
at the boy beacon across the 
street. At 16, the real thing wowed
me – and I couldn’t say a word. 

Later that night, I saw a falling star
for the first time and was made dumb
by another beautiful and unexpected gift
that came falling from the sky. 

SECOND SUMMER AT THE FESTIVAL

I: Out of Costume
You captivate me as a spectator
so changed from last summer
when I saw you on stage.

Without last summer’s tan
this lighter self seems like
a pale counterpart to
the character you were before—
sun-kissed and awash in stage lights.

What to make of this
plain-clothes you?
Baby-blue button-up shirt,
board shorts,
head crowned with 
surprising dark curls
no longer imprisoned
beneath a felt fedora.

Speaking to a friend
in your regular rhythm,
no longer constrained
by iambic pentameter,
in hushed free verse
you critique 
your co-conspirators
of the year before.

Your laugh is youthful—
loud and carefree
so much in contrast
to the cautious character
you played before.
No fancy fedora-wearing partisan
would laugh like that.

II: Off Book
Without a seat as my mark,
I am lost in the lobby
adrift without a drink.
Without a script, 
I am silent,
too timid to speak to you 
of this—or that—play.

Flickering lights
signal us
to move back 
into the dark play space
in an anonymous tandem dance.

III: Applause
We applaud together
for what we have witnessed:

You for your friends,
former foes,
fellow players.

I for them
and for you—
the you of yester-year,
costume-clad and captivating,
and for you now—
a lovely and unexpected sideshow.

Suzanne Wiltz is a New Orleans native and graduate of Tulane University. Her poetry has appeared in Spires, The Southwestern Review, The Heartland Review, MockingHeart Review, among other publications. She edits two newsletters – Poetry Newsletter and The Spark. In 2022 Suzanne was awarded an ArtSpark grant by Acadiana Center for the Arts and a fellowship to the Wild Seeds Writers Retreat, a program of the Center for Black Literature at Medgar Evers College, CUNY. Her multi-disciplinary poetry cycle, Zebulon’s Dream, debuted on stage in 2023. Suzanne and her beloved cat, Mikey Alexander Wiltz, live in Louisiana.