Trillium Spring

 

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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