SWAGGER HEADFIRST INTO YOUR CAMPFIRE

My only fling has no name.

No one close to me

ever got close to him,

ever saw the ink stars shooting up his arms,

disappearing behind clothes.

My only fling drove the big black truck

I wanted to teach to be reckless

when I was 16 years old.

He was 10 years older but

I was 10 years older

than myself,

so I let him take me

to see a jazz singer

whose name escapes with his,

though I recall a five-minute piano solo

that knocked on my face

with a bouquet of roses

like an old fashioned gentleman.

My fling ordered chocolate-covered cherries,

did as little as rub my knuckle at the table

while we watched the firemen

put out a blaze of strings and keys.

He wore a blue plaid scarf and ivy cap,

far from the scarred eyes and torn hoodies

of Reseda rats that still rested

at the bottom of my brain’s backwash vinegar.

My fling brought me back to my car

and I drove off

through his front door

and into his living room

where he played Mingus on 45s

and introduced the handshake of a slow burn.

I lay on his chest and listened to the sound

of an ancient city crumble to its knees.

His heavy belt buckle

stared at my dress

half tucked up over my hips,

a Rembrandt hanging

from a clavicle he could never have.

He kissed, a hummingbird to citrus.

I kicked, a filly in a field.

My fling will never have an ending

to write about. I don’t remember

whether I ever called him

my ‘darling’ again,

or whether he blinked like that

to dream for both of us.

To fall in love

then wake from me.

To know or not know

my real name.