You had a three-day pass
That stretched to Monday.
My parents scowled their breakfasts down
And rushed to work,
Leaving us at home.
No school that day,
Just you and me and the unmade beds.
I don't recall
Who suggested a bath
But what a clamor
The water made in the empty house,
Scolding as it filled the tub. We climbed in
Like two sailors setting out for the unknown
In our private, enameled sea.
We explored each other's territory
And I felt the hairs of your chest
Under my fingers
Under my cheek
Under my breast.
And you --
I thought you were Magellan,
The way you charted my wilderness.
Afterwards, you smoothed my worries
With honeyed words and smiles.
You lying pirate.
I loved you for it just the same.
Even now, after sailing together so long,
I treasure that lie.
Copyright 1969, Diana W. Smith, All Rights Reserved