Jean, fifth grade
was a practical girl
with a bony nose
skinny as a straw, gap in her teeth
dusky brown skin.
Chinese, somebody said.
Mexican, somebody else.
Never asked, now I wonder.
I was a practical boy.
She wore dull clothes
but she was bright,
smart as my dog, maybe smarter
always danced in bare feet.
Those days, maybe still, boys lined
one side, girls the other.
I’d head straight to Jean, offer my hand
because we danced good together.
Black hair bunched in a rubber band,
no bow or ribbon except her smile.
Girls teased, Jean scowled but
always took my hand.
Nothing planned, it just happened.
Dancing we hardly talked,
I was shy.
Without music we stayed apart.
Sixth grade she was gone.
You don’t know you’re in love
first time
until you do.
……
From my book Random Saints
First published in Third Wednesday. Thank you David Jibson, co-editor
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