She bit my lip
As if she'd been caught in the act
In the empty white Magnolia
Single-wide trailer
With the missing window
In the grassy field
By the little creek
Only three feet deep
Where we swam
As neighborhood kids
The previous summer.

It's my town out West
(Pick up the pace)
And I prayed for Montana strength
Tried my best to hang on
As we unhinged the treasure chest
(All hands on deck)
And fought smiles
Over which of us got what
When.

She leans and bends preoccupied
Eyeing her reflection
Pulling on her shoe.
The mirror is
Hanging on the flimsy
Bathroom door ajar
Down the hall.

I'm lying on the floor
Licking my wound
Liking my new adversary
A little amazed
A little amused
The hint of blood on my tongue.

She knows I want to be a writer,
And walks toward me:
Will you write about this someday,
What will you say,
Do you like my hair ok,
Do you think we'll kill more time this way?

There is a bruise above her left knee
Like a dark blue rose,
My first brush with irony.

It's warm enough now
Come Sunday morning
She will not have to cover it up
With nylon hose.

. . .

copyright 2000, Linford Detweiler