Hey, brown haired girl!
The men in the truck pursued them until they hid behind a concrete wall.
They passed a house with a field.
That’s where he touched me here–hand pressed her breast.
The smoke choked her eyes and nose,
her mother’s smoker’s voice—gravelly and strange.
She let him lift her flowered skirt up while they ditched class behind the levee.
The river was full that year.
Van Gogh’s Almond Blossoms
in a kaleidoscopic twirl—twisting and twisting
the blossoms and twigs became ladies
and gentlemen in a puppet show
and you lie next to me, and all I can feel are vibrations,
waking up to pulsing and the almond blossoms aswirl.