Yehudit sat with her chin
on her knees and her hands
wrapped about her bare legs,
staring at the water of the pond.

Flies hovered over the water's
skin, ducks swam, birds flew
or sang. Baruch sat beside her,
hands on the grass either side
of him, watching the scene,
smelling her scent, liberated
(Yehudit claimed from her
mother's room), dabbed on
liberally. Marilyn Monroe's
dead, he said. Suicide I heard,
she replied. Or other, he said,
someone wanted her dead.

Papers say suicide, she said,
least ways she out of it. I liked
her, he said, many a guy dreams
of her I suppose. Are you one
of those? she asked. Is a guy
responsible for his dreams? he
said, turning his head, taking
in her profile, goddess like, he
thought, nose, chin, lips and all.

Who would you like to wake up
to me or Monroe? she asked,
giving him the steady stare.

You now, of course, he replied,
now she's died. Yehudit slapped
his arm, seriously even if she
hadn't popped her clogs? He
saw a rook fly across the pond,
noise attending, flap of wings.

You of course, he said, even if
she lived; you'd be my first choice,
he added in whispered voice.

She closed her, leaned her damp
forehead on her knees, hands
holding her legs tight. There
was no wind, just afternoon
warm sunlight. I dream of you
often, she said, here by the
pond, in the classroom, in my
single bed. He smiled at this,
wanting to give her lips a kiss.

He viewed her thigh out of the
corner of his eye. Her green
skirt had lowered down, thus
revealing such. He loved the
way she was: her hair, her eyes
open or closed, her lips in motion
or still, her hands at rest or play.

They'd not made it to her bedroom,
her mother was always around,
upstairs or down; they'd not made
his bedroom either (he shared with
his brother) and of course, he didn't
want to shock his mother. In dear
Yehudit's dreams of him they'd made
it it seemed, although he didn't share
because he wasn't there, which he
thought unfair. On the sports field
at school, I heard, you see another,
she said, her voice hesitant, her
words hanging in the air. Oh that's
nothing, he said, just a girl with
a crush, no big deal. So Yehudit
looked away. Sunlight danced on
the water's skin, warming flies
and ducks and fish beneath within.

He wondered how he lied. Words
came out of their own accord.
That other on the sports field,
who'd wormed into his mind
and heart, filled his night and
dreams (more than Monroe had
or did), but because he didn't
want to injure dear Yehudit's
mind or heart, he kept it hid.