I forget why the
smell of pool chlorine
made me want to
skinny-dip,
which, of course, I
did not—Aunt Mayme
would have come out
and asked me, what
the Hell I was
doing.
I forget if it was
June or September,
Newel and I set up a
high-jump bar,
he sailed over easy
and I did too
almost, and we heard
Gail and Linda
next door behind the
fence, giggling.
I forget if it was
the Temptations
or Little Richard that I dreamt
played on my radio
all night
and wouldn’t turn
off,
even when I turned
the knob
hard to the left,
pulled out the plug,
certain my parents could hear.
I forget how the
stone looked,
why Newel and I
picked it up,
broke it open,
saw the vein of red
running from a solid
red heart,
why we made a stone
bleed.
And I forget which
girls I
wanted to dance with
at the sock hop,
but I could not ask
because I
would have to talk
with them
and then all the
blood
in my body would
rush
up through my throat
into my head
and I would die.