August 31, 2013
I climbed a side trail this morning
and saw an old bur oak towering
above the bluff and ringed by egg-blue sky
and saw an old bur oak from memory
where, in the summer of ’67,
a steamy August afternoon
PereMarquettePark on the Illinois River
Betsy and me lying on a blanket
in a secluded tangled thicket of trees and bushes
my car the only one in the high parking lot
this was the day
Betsy saying ‘yes’ over and over,
me responding ‘are you sure?’
‘yes’ over and over
and we kneel and undress
and she lies back
one hand over her groin
this mysterious valley of the girl
and her pixie’s red hair
and her upturned delicate nose
her skin is freckled china
her breasts are teacups
and this is the picnic of all pinics
and the menu is salt and liquid and berry
this was the day
and she murmurs Catholic prayers
we have been petting and praying for weeks
and her lilac perfume
and honeysuckle and Queen Ann’s lace perfume
and, eyes shut, we do Braille
on each others’ sweating bodies
this was the day
‘yes’ over and over
when ‘I’m ready do you love me
do you marry me soon
do you intend will you do you
do you do you do you’
and I pause . . . and hear
‘our father who art in heaven’
and I sing yes! like a mad songbird
this was the day
until another car drives up
and I rise and see a blue Chevy with fins
and four nuns all costumed
jumping out for their picnic
and Betsy grabs her clothes and runs
and I grab my clothes and the blanket and run
and we dress standing and fumbling
Betsy sure this is God’s retribution
Betsy fumbling with a rosary, murmuring
‘we have sinned’ (we hadn’t thanks to the nuns)
‘we are lust-filled’ (we were)
‘let us pray’
and we stand rumpled and pure
and Betsy prays to the Saints Who’s Its
at least two St. Francis’s
and I say ‘amen’
she tells me it is all my fault and I have to go along
a concatenation of amen’s because
until the next weekend when we’ll try it again
so I walk up to an old bur oak tree
and punch the massive trunk for penance
breaking my right thumb
it is still crooked to this day, bent to the left
and the oak is not injured
and Betsy marvels at the sacrifice and kisses the angled digit
and the nuns meet the innocent children in the wood
and we introduce ourselves
this was not the day
and the nuns taking turns examining my right thumb
which ‘I tripped and fell over a rock’
me all the time thinking of teacups and freckles
and the nestled nested
the mysterious valley of the girl
