On hot days she would take me
to the creek behind her house.
We would run through the rangy mantel
of cattail and reeds,
into the wonderful shock of icy water.
She said it was okay to take my top off
because we didn’t have any boys around,
& there wasn’t another house in sight.
She would kick her sandals off
and hold the length of her skirt
above the current,
while I’d rest on the smooth rocks
& let the mountain-cold water
rush across my belly.
Sometimes she would get happy,
wading around with a thin cigarette
that she pinched between
her thumb and index finger.
Then with her bottom in the water,
she’d lean back against the bank,
knees pointing up to God,
& the long, red hairs of her bush
waving like a flame.
