Nineteen sixty-nine. The autumn fair was in Athens. <br /> <br />I was sixteen. You had finished your senior year. <br /> <br />You threw well aimed darts, and loaded my arms <br /> <br />with cheap stuffed toys; soft treasures for my bed. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Arms and objections occupied, I leaned tight <br /> <br />while you held me from behind, whispering <br /> <br />unfamiliar syllables into my warming ear. <br /> <br />I remember your hands, and how I wanted <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />the force of them firm around my breasts; <br /> <br />fingertips exploring chilled hard nipples. <br /> <br />Old enough to want, too young to recognize <br /> <br />the scent you were leaving on my expectations. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />You stood silhouetted against carnival lights; <br /> <br />Ferris wheel colors haloing your dark hair. <br /> <br />I grabbed my instamatic; snapped a hunk of you <br /> <br />as you left for California. And I am still here. <br /> <br /> <br />(©2008)<br /><br />Shirley Alexander<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/presents-from-jim/
