Poetry

Dandelions

“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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