At Nineteen

If it got hot, I floated down the river
In an inner tube with summer on my thighs
And my arse hanging out the donut hole.
Not a delicate thing (anyone could see).
Not a tiny thing –
To avoid bedrock, to emerge uncut
From this yearning for boys.
But I wasn’t as hopeless as
The ache in the current, as fickle as
The blue in that boy’s eyes.
I was sturdy and smart, and ditched
That tube to pick out my place in the sun.
Sure, I swat at some flies, and man-
Handled that post to pitch my umbrella
Deep into the parts I knew spat up sand
Where a few forgotten petals sprang,
By the river I used to ride when it was hot
–And I was nineteen.

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16 thoughts on “At Nineteen

    1. It is, or would have been Millay’s birthday. Okay, let’s celebrate. 😉 And thanks for reading my monkey brain stuff. This one was my 500th post. I’m going to start teaching my own poetry workshop in April to anyone in this town who’s interested. Which will be…no one? We’ll see.

  1. This is magnificent! I can see me at 19 doing all these things to try to attract the blue-eyed boys! Thanks for this nostalgic journey down the ever-flowing river of time!

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