Amy Blache

When Karlov street grew small with dusk,
behind the neighbor's pewter Skylark
we'd crouch, each time a little older,
each a bit suspicious of the other,
until in jack-and-diane fashion I blurted
my first I love you, the first,
which cuts long in the fabric
toward its own edge.
I said it. I said it again.
You might think this moment awkward,
you might think she heard
a line or two of Rosetti's
while I said Sexton,
you might think we went to the convent,
the darkest spot on Earth,
you might think my fingers
walked up her skirt,
that hers hooked skyward
until they reached that mess
and blur of cartoon stars,
you might picture a celtic knot.
And had you been there
that night
you might have heard us,
for the first time,
reciting Keats.