Single Again

Before you remarried.

Before he was Dad and just Archie.

When you were widowed.

I was six -- chicken legs

and summer barefoot -- watching

through the knotted fence.

The neighbor boys -- half naked

and burnt -- battled like sperm

for a spot in the pool.

Water sparked like a scalpel

and the splashing drowned out

AM pop pouring through the radio.

I didn't scream when the nail

pierced my foot. Not until I felt

the warm and saw the blood.

A candy ribbon of crimson

drip to a gush and

spread at my foot.

Cousin Cathy carried me home --

a limp Orphan Andy yelping for mother.

They took me to the hospital and waited.

You were at the races

winning laughs and kisses

from your future husband.

And waited because they couldn't find

you. Then patched me up with string

and strawberry ice cream.

The next day -- chicken legs

and summer bandage -- I watched

you from the porch.

A Jackie O in oversized

sunglasses scrubbing blood -- thick

as menstruation -- from the sidewalk.

A matron on hands and knees.

Sweat dribbling from your forehead.

When you were single again.

poem and photo copyright Robert P. Langdon