Marilyn

I remember
a girl named Marilyn
Her flaming red Irish hair
was a mass of tumbling curls
Her face a wild`flower field of freckles
Her eyes sparkling green as the Aegean
She is on the swing at recess
her dimple-kneed pumping
pushes her sky-ward
in laughter

And once
behind the backstop
she gave me my first kiss
The innocent kiss of curiosity
as though kissing were a new alphabet
and lips awkward new writing utensils
It was for her a first-grade rite
of passage but my first taste
of Eden’s hard apple
sweet softened

I remember
eleven years later
seeing Marilyn walking
with a football player His hand
upon the thin bra-strap across her back
as though to say her form were now his
Her red Irish curls still tumbling
across the wild-flowers
The emerald eyes
still sparkling

Ancient memories are beyond all reason
The heart holds on where the mind drifts

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About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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