“I guess it’s the last of the dandelions this year.  Have you ever heard of rubbing it under your chin?  If it rubs off it means you’re in love.”
(Ray Bradbury ~ Fahrenheit 451)

I remember almost nothing
of chemistry itself except

we got called down once
for holding hands; sitting in class,
with your knee between my legs,
we were locked together
for an hour and a half.

That’s what I remember most.

And once when we lay
in the grass, staring up
into the poplar tree I
rubbed dandelions on your chin
hoping the pollen would stick.

But a summer passed before you called.

You told me you
had a girlfriend.
I told you I
might be pregnant.

What do I remember?

That unsent letter
burning to ashes
in a metal box
shaped like a heart.


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