Caralyn

Sometimes I wonder,
when push comes to shove,
when it comes to laying the blame,
when your kids or mine
look at the world they came from,
is it on my wide, freckled shoulders,
or your olive-toned delicates?

Or maybe we get to step back,
put fault on those who found 
innocence irresistible,
or found our vulnerable youth to be
a simple depository.

Did it all start with my brother
and your father in our own respective beds?
Is that why we sought each other out?
A small bit of pheromone
or unused semen on us both
calling out to kind?

Is that why on Friday nights
with my head on your pillow,
your mouth on my nipple,
my arms around your back,
I felt love for the first time
at eight.

When you left home
and your self-nobled father
at fourteen, a ward of the street,
did you miss me?
Or had we both just used the other?

Do you still dream
of a blonde,
freckle-skinned girl,
like I dream
of your thick, brown hair
and olive shoulders?

Kathleen Hover
02/05/03