we had no boys at our parties
just tea and cribbage
sometimes a bowl of bugles
beatles 45s and one glass of pop each if mom was in a good mood
she loves you ya ya ya 8 days a week baby it’s you
we hung off each other and slowdanced a clumsy box-step shuffle
secretly wishing it was max coulson’s hands around our waists
or pete scanlon’s short dirty legs rubbing up against our nervous thighs
rec room couch not quite lumpy enough for the cottage
spin the bottle, truth or dare
by 14 a couple of boys came calling
it was always awkward
til gary and ray started sneaking canadian club into the 7up
then we were all relaxed and stupid
anne went off to neck with gary
peggy had a thing for ray
i just kept changing the records
refilling the chip bowl
and tried to keep mom from coming downstairs
kisses at 14 seemed so much more thrilling
anne’s dare kiss ray on the mouth
peggy’s truth have you ever, you know, let a boy touch you there
consequences of telling a lie go outside topless and run three times around that big tree
kelly’s lament why isn’t max coulson at this party!
at 14 you still have your freckles and eyebrows
and all the cute boys in the world seem somehow attainable
in your dreams at least
where paul and john sing an endless loop of baby it’s you
and i wanna hold your hand
and what would i give to hold your lonely hand now
in my sweaty 14-year-old palm
curl up under the tv blanket
graze elbows, touch timid toes
giggle and fall asleep smiling
before the late night horror movie even comes on
Because her heart and mind are open to hurts and salves, the poet both suffers and exults. She sets her eyes — and sights — directly on bedrooms, kitchens, living rooms, beaches, forest glades, motels, streets, and all the passion plays and comedies enacted in these places. Thus, she shows us that home is where the lover is, and home is where love is born, “hidden … in mitochondrial strands” or even in “the intimate seams of some underthings.”
spatherdab 