Love at eight

A horrid little brat for days,
all spit and sass,
tripping your brother,
a note from your teacher,
you even called me fool.

Next morning you dressed
and redressed three times,
splashed on your father’s aftershave,
tucked a wallet in your pocket.
When you opened your notebook,
a page of red and turquoise hearts
and stars spilled out–
I thought for me–
until I saw Cora Cora Cora
in your neatest hand.
Love! Why hadn’t I thought of that?

I was just your age when Jeffrey John Jasper
showed me how to play wild horses:
if the cowboys caught us
they got to corral us.
I outran all the boys until
the day I figured it out.
Valentine’s Day Jeffrey gave me
a one-dollar card that said love.
I kept secret until recess,
when two girls showed me
identical cards signed JJJ.

You tilt your head at the mirror,
and homilies swarm to my mind.
I wave them and the waft
of English Leather away and say,
Mmm, don’t you smell nice.

 

© Debra Kaufman