It's March in Carolina.
I'm breathless on the balcony
I hole up in my mind
with an old lover
the best man in this countryside
of strawberry shortcake and how'd'y'dos.
For long days we bounced on trampolines, drank hot chocolate
in the moonlight, I played
poker with his grandmother, let his red-headed brother
tie my hair with a pink ribbon.
We canoed up the river, swam naked
Sang poetry, drew worlds
nonetheless love flickers
He drew boundaries, bought himself a ticket
he had a suitcase, a motorcycle
and that directionless old perfection
lank-limbed, deep-dimpled
I get weak at the thought
and that's only the river-run memory
of his Southern bedroom talk
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