Trillium Spring
In Maryland we play Monopoly
by made-up California rules:
Earthquakes destroy hotels.
A single game lasts in sunshine forever,
Elaine’s rule because her dad
was killed in Korea.
Elaine delivers the Washington Star
with wildflowers plucked along the route
but never trillium which dies too fast.
Sometimes I help. She’s poor.
On leftover news she draws crayon faces,
men with golden halos.
One day she gives me a portrait of myself.
No halo. Stupidly I say: Nose like an Edsel.
She runs out in tears. I follow to the bathroom.
Elaine has eyelashes of wispy smoke.
I—I’m sorry—I meant—I—I kiss,
over the sink—above the scent of soap
like an exploding wildflower
and then with impish smile
she sticks out her tongue, the deepest richest red.
Earthquake, game resumes while I puzzle
over unexpected wetness of lip,
the strange surge down to my legs.
Too young or too bewildered we never
kiss again until her family moves to Ohio
when she pecks me goodbye.
Later half a century my nose
almost an Edsel. Each Spring
trillium bloom with burgundy tongue.
Come close, inhale the subtle musk
but don’t kiss—or you’ll touch pollen
that clings, a game without end.
…..
First published in Speckled Trout
Photo by Will Brown
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