Got It Good

 

When spring came that year, we joined hands

in a ring-a-rosy dervish;  I

giggling, you wondering how.

I only notice now, from your Kodak blush,

that the push of the crowd made you cower

as you thrust your pigtailed prettiness before you:

gold, like Maccabee’s shield.

 

We played pat-a-cake in the summer,

cross-legged on concrete like beggars.

You envied me my knees

free of daubed mercurochrome;

my home, too poor for even a coat of dust,

but just a pocket full of seeds,

not a coffin of secrets.

 

I saw you flinch and twist

as your wrist cracked under his hand.

Leaves fell without pause

and you did not break their silence,

nor I. 

 

The autumn and I awoke

to you: broken in the first snow,

golden eagles spread saintly

about your head.