Kiddo
by Ivan Fischer
I remember my first glimpse
of you,
when your car sputtered up the drive.
From my bedroom window
I saw my sister leaning over,
obscuring your face,
kissing you, before
scampering from your car.
For a moment you stayed,
in the dying June daylight,
as I peeked from my window to yours.
Could you see me
watching?
Were you looking
at me?
I would see you again,
and again,
smiling through the screen door,
head tilted, and asking
if my sister was home.
You glided to her
like a glass bottle
pushed across the carpet.
She was just like me,
only three years older.
She had darker hair,
longer legs,
and you.
With a flash of your teeth,
even Dad welcomed your visits.
As the summer matured,
you would stay longer
and later
in my sister's room.
You spoke so coolly,
wide shouldered like a mustang,
tossing your mane
with a graceful flick.
Down at the lakeshore,
from the hot sand
I saw you dive. Your long body
straightened and slid
into the water. Emerging,
you strode up the beach,
a droplet of water
racing over collarbone, ribs,
hip. I bit my lip
when you saw me.
Grasping and digging rough sand
with my toes,
when you tousled my hair,
when you called me 'Kiddo'.
You will come to see her
under tonight's stars. You will
stride across the porch
and bound up the stairs;
eagerly, quietly.
Behind her door,
beneath her covers,
I'll await you.
My hair, darkened,
smelling the way she does;
the way you like.
I will wear her soft pink
sweater. As you slip through her
doorway, into warm darkness,
I wonder
if you will find what you want.
I hope
you will want what you find.
Kiddo by Ivan Fischer is a Blasted Tree original poem