The summer he turned
Fifteen he took me to the
Carnival on the eve of his
Celebration. Barkers enticed
Us into their tents. We stared
At molded figures not common
To our neighborhood.
I stood close to him, protected
By his tall Italian frame. His black
Hair glistened, his eyes held me at
Every movement. The new moon
Followed us home, spying.
It sat in our laps, drank from our faces.
The wooden steps of my house became
Our chairs, cradled us.
My mother and step-father
Asleep in their sheet-only bed.
Their earlier words,
A pinecone conversation.
Across the street his mother at her window:
A timetable of glances.
We talked for hours: his ideals, his young man
Plans; my girl language.
The late evening breeze chilled our bodies,
And we drew closer together.
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