and what she would have done if they hadn’t all laughed at her,

or if her amber hair hadn’t been perfectly swept

past her temples, her breasts not so tucked in satin

(and really, wasn’t her petal-pink dress the truest test of time?)

I think of these Carrie iterations and admit

I get lost because there is already so much about

Carrie that could have been:

like, wouldn’t the blood have been

congealed by the time the tinsel

had been strung, the stars cut and hung

by ladder from one end of the ceiling

to the other? Wouldn’t John Travolta have been

the male lead, realistically – not that

smarmy blonde with curls

whose forehead bloomed into a

goose egg when he took the second hit

from the swinging bucket

with an oval look of horror on his face,

as if to say he deserved it, as if to say,

My god, Carrie, how could they do this to you. They.

But this: wouldn’t Carrie have realistically reached maximal

pleasure when the gymnasium doors slammed

shut like portals, considering her condition,

whatever laws of physics, magic, whatever

whatever governed her. I don’t know. Laughter.

But she did the big one on all those friends.

And wouldn’t you think, with everything in her world

changing that week, so violent, bloody red,

the womanly body of it all, the standing

in it, showering, spotlight, spectacle of it all,

laughter, piggy, the camaraderie and

grand, sparkle night of it all, wouldn’t you think

she’d have experienced it, ecstasy?