More From the Not So Distant Ark-hives

[There Is No Love But Puppies]

Pamela down the street, no,
Up and down the stairs—
Yes, it was Love,
Yes, we were 9,
Of course, we would marry.
My lunch box I kicked for her
Up and down the street,
Up and down the stairs, &
Up and down the Vast Appalachian Trail.
“I will die for you,” I said,
“Like Daniel Boone in Booneville,
Like Mickey Dolenz in Clarksville,
Like that three-time loser Henry in fields of clay.”
“Do I care?” she said. “My ribbons
Are orange. I am a Brownie,
I am no Appalachian Fairy.
I’ll sell you my cookies, but only
AFTER we say grace. You
Say grace, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” I said,
Fingering the orange ribbon,
Or was it pink?
Or brown?
The beanie, I know,
Was felt.
Brown felt.
Wet in the rainy day,
It stank. It was clipped
In place, until it unclipped &
Fell to black wet ground,
& then ribbons,
& then tears.
It was our last,
The very last,
The only last stanza
Of our holy days.

(Poem written on ribbon, front and back. Thanks to Enedina Vasquez and Mary Earle)