I remember 17, working weekends, my first real job,
girl-boss of Housekeeping, trading soiled cloths
for clean.

First lover, I met you there.

College boy, 24-year-old graduate in your Jack Kerouac phase.
You didn’t listen when your mother said, A nice Jewish boy
shouldn’t be serious about a shiksa. Have a little fun,
then marry Roz & Joel’s girl.

We did.

First sex, friendship with intellect made me ravenous, grew me
into a woman. We read Hesse & Vonnegut, watched foreign films
and Bogart, weekended in Montreal. Almost gave you a heart attack
teaching me to drive a stick in your red Fiat convertible.

I exploded with spring azaleas, lush with summer. Eager
to escape, I left for college. You road-tripped to Colorado
skiing, sent travel tapes & love letters.

Took me years to know that kind of loving

lost in the arrow of time, faded as a summer-blue concrete pool,
ballrooms stale with wedding songs & Passovers. History,
frail as frayed linens.