I will not say thank you or

you have changed my life

cliches fallen dropping cherry blossom petals

down

from lips of graduates before me.

Wrinkles on my hands (and when I

squint, in the corners of my eyes)

Four years (well, three and one affair, a desert city

still burning)

have worn their lessons on my skin.

Pink snows, April

blanket for my Dahlgren square disappearing

fallen flower cover

my prayers tucked, the hardwood pews (behind the hymnal)

a church hearing (only once)

my consuming desire to leave

when a plane crashed and towers fell.

numerous (sand in an open palm) thoughts thinking

minute hour day

voices rising a red square protest

well preserved (jam sticky sweet)

in the crags of gray stone buildings.

Hilltop above a sea . what city?

this city dressed, elegant woman my seductress

in midnight blue.

my school hiding ghosts (beneath

white graves and secret tunnels)

still whisper, watching

their changing Georgetown (construction

tilling, tearing green fields brown).

molded

by their minds and this generation

to wear black gowns and tassels

to say goodbye.

Not thank you.

Thank you is understood.

Yasmine Noujaim is a senior in the College. She is a former columnist, editorial page editor and contributing editor for THE HOYA.