Читать книгу Light in Light - Deborah Gerrish - Страница 12

His name was Joe—

tall, with curly light brown hair

like my French poodle, Rollo.

He was as cute as the football

captain my younger sister dated,

smarter than my older sister’s

college boyfriend.

On Saturdays, we would meet

at the Great Falls just where

the river makes a grand entrance,

creates a brash wall of water.

Cronin’s Oak Tree—

two o’clock sharp at Overlook Park,

shared Marlboros like in

Steve McQueen movies—

with every smoke ring, I would flip

my hair back Natalie Wood style.

Dressed in his black bomber jacket

with the red letters, Satan,

stitched across the back,

Joe wore skinny jeans before

they were called skinny jeans.

My dear mother tried

to lure me from this man—

I was the cat and she waved

the wand with bird feathers;

took me shopping,

bought me an angora sweater,

silk stockings and garters,

an organza dress with crinoline,

patent shoes, a chenille beret.

But listen, finally she said, “I forbid you

to see this boy.” So we set a time to meet again,

planned to dance at Central High’s

First Annual Chubby Checker “Let’s Twist Again

Like We Did Last Summer Contest.”

My white chiffon dress, red embroidered hem

flared like the trunk on our front yard maple.

We did the twist for hours,

sweating like two unpeeled apples,

our feet sliding, our shoulders and arms

swinging back and forth,

the music loud like the noise of the falls,

my curly long hair out of control.