That Sunday your parents went away we lay on a raft in the pool dark sunglasses and bikinis my cheek resting on your bare shoulder you told me how your backyard held memories of fairies how you used to fly a plane as you swung on that wooden swing tied to a big oak tree by two chains you spread stuffed animals on the green grass served them tea then put them in the trees threw rocks at them until they tumbled to the ground that's when you brought out your grocery store medic bag and fixed them up sometimes you slept out here in summer with your sister sleeping bags and cookies If your parents could see you now with me, so close they'd shoot me and bury me way back where your yard turns into a cement wash I jump every time I hear a car outside until I fall into the water with you we take our tops off and dance arms around each other breasts touching A person could get lost in your acre of childhood with all its green
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Warren Wedin warren.wedin@csun.edu