Kiss and Tell
Marc Swan
In the paper-thin light
of early spring
Marie and I shivered
between the snowdrifts
waiting for the bus.
She was a grade above me.
Her dirty blond hair
hung loose over her turned up
collar, red rubber boots
dancestepping in time
with “King Creole”
she whistled
through chattering teeth.
In the summer
we’d climb Mr. Ford’s apple tree,
tossing green apples
as far as we could throw.
Her’s always outdistanced mine.
I tried to kiss her once
in that tree.
Laughing, she pushed me hard
and we tumbled to the ground
where I filled her mouth
with my eager tongue,
ran my hands under
her halter top, tried to get into
her soft cotton pants.
She kept laughing,
rolling away from me
but not too far.
She loved to walk in the woods
looking for the tracks of deer,
arrowheads,
humming a popular tune,
hair flying,
hands not afraid to touch
anything.
published in Sheila-na-gig, runner up 1993 contest
