I lie in bed, a lazy girl
dreamy smiled and and sleepy eyed,
your latest sonnet on my pillow –
my latest heartbeat, amplified.

How strong I can recall
Summer’s cut grass
Damp from the thick
Southern air
We danced with plastic castles
In our arms
Dodging sprinklers
In neighbors’ yards
A child’s bliss
Ignoring calls
Of supper and setting suns
We ran on

Wet concrete
Beneath my feet
Felt like sand
And salt marsh breeze
Wandered gentle
Through my hair
Not quite a beach
But nearly there

Then quietly
The whirr of mowers
Disappeared
Summer’s white noise
Cut from my ears

We ambled home
Tired in and out
Called back by good request
Of stomach’s pleading
And light’s arrest

Like a fragile image
That was long ago cast,
Emerging from the recesses
Of the distant past,

A tiny reflection
That once was a gleam,
Of an old memory
From a cherished dream,

Who would know how
When or where?
Only you and the memories
That still linger there.


September 8, 1966

I won't spit out your bones.
Instead I'll carry them,
nestle them under my throat, bear
them like I bore my love for you:
That is, carelessly,
cutting at my throat and ******* until
my forearms stain and an earthquake
thunders down, showcasing the other
fossils I have buried before you.