You taught me to mist my hair with water
and pretend I was anointed
by a fairy with a spritzer bottle.

All liquids had magic properties-- water
was holy, and juice a sin, and stolen
beer could transform smiles into smirks.

And then we buckled belts around our waists
and were protected from the vagaries
of death, decay, and fallen pants.

Our fingers were once so talented that they
could ward off demons with their
joint-cracking crookedness. I miss it,

the way we could climb six times higher
than our fingers could reach, and
still tumble back without fear or lingering.

I'm here in our meadow, a bottle of innocence
beside me. All the liquid has seeped out:
the grass is young and fresh, but you are gone.

11/09/2003

Author's Note: NOW there's an author's note. Yes, I wrote it all myself, but I told Rachelle that it's her fault if it's subpar, cause she wasn't around to co-write a poem. :-) Just in case anyone wanted an explanation... She agreed to take the blame. So there.

Posted on 11/10/2003
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