Roseanne

Roseanne is balanced

on a branch above me.

Pries a chunk of bark

off a rotted section

of the trunk.

Oh, she coos,

in her froggy voice

deeper than a boys,

deeper than mine.

She holds up

a slender, gray,

ensatina, what we call

a tree salamander.

It does not struggle.

We climb back

to the ground.

Inspect our prize.

It looks at us

with placid eyes.

Roseanne reaches

up the tree and releases

the delicate creature.

We head further up the hill

to the rocks where

blue belly lizards bask.

She's as good or better

than me, her quick hands

dart with grace and skill

grabbing lizards and never

breaking their tails.

We catch a few

then let them go,

decide to go back down

behind the barn to throw

rocks in the manure pond.

There's a cat licking kittens

in the sunshine in the doorway

of the barn. She lets us pet them.

Manuel, the dairyman is coming

down the gravel driveway

from his house.

We go inside and climb

up the hay bales to the loft.

To spy and whisper things

about him, as if he were

a villain. He's not.

But he thinks we'll upset

the cows and it's almost

milking time.

Tossing rocks into

the manure pond,

to make big splashes

like erupting green lava,

will have to wait until tomorrow.

So we go around the back

and zip across the driveway

to the pale stucco farmhouse

that her family rents.

The garden has hydrangeas

and snapdragons.

Those are the ones we like,

because you can pull off a blossom

and manipulate the petals

to imitate a mouth speaking.

That's what we do,

talk to each other with flowers.

I want to kiss her.

Boys and girls our age

supposedly don't share

that desire. I do but I don't

dare to ask.

Too shy and too afraid

that she doesn't feel the same way

and we'll never climb trees again

or throw rocks in the manure pond.

So the snap dragons talk about other things,

salamanders and shit ponds.