valentine

a notebook tumbles

down the freeway

flapping pages.

some lost staccato

rhythm punctuating

memories of roseanne.

we made snapdragon

flower finger puppets

with tiny voices.

threw rocks

into the shit pond

behind the milking barn.

whispered about what we heard

the sixth graders say about

what boys did with girls.

we had a vague idea

of the mechanics,

but not the mystery.

she got lichens

in her long dark hair

climbing a tall oak,

spilled her froggy chuckle

when she found an

ensatina salamander

clinging to the bark

high up in the branches.

roseanne could climb a tree

as good as any boy and was
more adept at catching bluebellies

with her darting hands.

the farm was sold

before we ever made it

to sixth grade ourselves.

but i climbed an oak so high

that i could reach through

the topmost leaves

and touch the sky

and carved a heart

with an arrow through it

and m.c. loves r.o.

in the middle.

no farmhouse

no snapdragons,

no barn, no cows,

no shit pond.

that oak is still there,

although i doubt that

that i could climb it.