Sunday, July 24, 2011


There were girls then
who were pretty but wild.
Mothers feared for their sons
and said nothing, but worried.
There was Mary Ruth who kissed
with tongue, painted her nails red.
There was Patsy who fucked,
her black hair in a bun. All said
by the slow burning boys
of the hot girls, toys
of their imagination . . .
There was Mary Louise,
older than most, equestrienne
and seductress.
She could shuck her dress
and that was all, her tan body
a shiver of joy
warm under any sky.

We scaled the high fence
and shucked our clothes,
we swam in defiance
of the city law. Our woes
would never begin here. The city,
hardly a town, lacked money
to hire a night patrol.
the crickets lulled
people in houses already sleepy
from trying to make a baby,
what we'd do only when ready.
We learned to do it under water,
did it when the moon
was full. There was banter
and braggadocio.
There was Irene Castenada,
beloved of Floyce Alexander,
from whom he learned.

We knew nothing of love.
We were still coming to life.
The girls were women already
and creatures from far away
come here to make us happy
or so we thought
in our speed and brawn
shackled to the ignorant
ambience of our lonely town.
There was tawny Yvonne
whose pal was buxom Mary.
Yvonne got married,
left school, Mary
soon followed, tall girls
with stories to tell.
Wherever they are
is far from the ocean,
pearls abandoned by their shells.

(24 July 2011)

copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander


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