You don't know
how it will go
for you are not eighteen.
At eighteen
you will become his lover.
You will stop
to climb together
into his shower
before your morning class.
You will ride north
in the seat of his
restored Austin.
Your long hair
will spread
like black wings.
But you don't know
how fast time will go
for you are not eighteen.
At nineteen,
you will cry
because he questions god.
Because he tempers fate
with powder,
mary-jane, and prose.
But you don't know
that when you leave him
he will sigh
and freeze
for six long years.
You will know when his
aged uncle sees you on
the street and clasps your
coat's arm. The old man's tears
will slide into wrinkles
as he pleads,
"Won't you please return? My
boy's heart's gone."
But you don't know for you are not nineteen.
At twenty he
will find you on a square dance
floor in your tight, short
pink dress.
You will be all legs
brown and toes all bared.
Your shoes are tossed and
lost forever
in a heap.
He will come to you
and docie doe
and skirt you
out the door.
You will ask,
"What about your date?"
You are green now
about Kate, how
she held fast to his arm
in the swing.
He will tell you
no other girl dances
as you do.
But you do not know this now.
And you do not care
much that he leaves Kate.
You are not twenty.
Yet.
At twenty-one
he will be unknown
outside the room
where you toast
your intention of a new life
with some new man,
in some turn of fate.
You will exit the
night with your friends
linking arms, and there
he sits
waiting.
Steak is on your breath.
You want to tell them to
go ahead.
You want to sit at his table
and ask him to stop the
mad ending.
But you do not know
the mad ending,
you are only
twenty-one.
At twenty-two,
he implores you.
"Bring the babe,
and come.
Just bring the babe
and we will live
somehow together."
You breathe slowly and later
sling forth
his name in sleep.
He bids you come.
In your dream,
you place the
phone upon the cradle.
At twenty-two,
you do not know
how to call him back
again.
But you are not
twenty-two.
You are seventeen,
and you are lithe.
The two of you will
cross creeks quick,
shoot quail,
make bird pie.
At Christmas you
will twine vines
into wreaths and
hang them upon your houses.
You are seventeen
and smiling.
You will stand beside
him while he tinkers
on an old orange VW.
You will travel with
him to the junkyard,
you will write the list.
The snow will fall,
and he will wrap your
feet in newsprint
before you cross the
vale in Boone.
You are seventeen
and you will touch his face,
often.
You will taste him in
your mouth.
But you are not yet twined.
You are seventeen,
and he will soon find you in
the morning tapping
at your window
carrying a flannel shirt.
"Come," he'll whisper,
"the sun's almost up."
Scupper © 2/2010
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Ashley Holt
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Comments
R
Lovely, lovely, amazing.
Haunting....just haunting......and so full of .....I don't know....
I am VERY impressed!!! rated
I am confused why folk act 17.
I feel like a kale salad with fudge.
At 17 I leaned on a potbelly stove.
My hand felt like it touched hot poker.
Hot chocolate fudge is not the dressing.
At my age I walk in the snow with no clothes.
I forget where my head is. I forgot my threads.
Scupper. I thought of you. I flounced @ my bog.
I remember smelling lanolin and sweet hair too.
Morals?
I lost them.
Lost marbles.
I love dirt fingers.
Your hand touche:`
Light, Earth, Alive.
I'll go see `Shrink?
Wear clown`Shoe.
Eat shoo-fly`Pies.
Tea and ice cream.
At 17 I was clueless.
I remember affection.
I kissed a 17 girl old.
She washed me ups.
I bathe alone @ 77!
I hope yes. No Way!
If I behave, maybe!
This is so clueless!
I need a 72 yr. old!
I'll call Sarah? ok!
She's 72 years old!
No. Sarah's young.
Sarah's a widow.
She cooks good.
candlelight wick.
I best return book.
It's gonna be wild.
Wild and tame day.
I love how you use the poetry form to deal with these reflections. I love how accepting you are of your immature self as you look back. I love how this poem acknowledges sadness as a part of the "whole picture" without being waylaid by bitterness and regret. In this we see how all things prepare us for who we choose to be in the now.
Beautiful.
Rated.
R.
Loved this! Thank you for sharing this.
will spread
like black wings.
But you don't know
how fast time will go
for you are not eighteen."
This is the part where I lost time when I read the rest of your poem...wonderful.
mg--Thank you for the kind comment
owl--your faithful reading means so much and helps me to improve what I give
Y-Heron--I'd like to have witnessed your black wingspan. I've still got Noahvose's poetic imagery of you coming across toward him in my thoughts. As always, thank you.
Or not.
Excellent piece.
You are a wonderful, talented writer and this was purely breathtaking.
Kisses,
Marcela