Radical girl; shy daughter of a teacher;

so beautiful she stopped the cleat of shadow on

the sun dial. Lithe, proportioned by that god

who packs quick rage in beasts—I couldn't reach her,

the bouncing betties on her halter top

not for a self-declared bohemian—

and she, hall-mirrored, knew it. Cruelty, love,

were joined by her in a long-handled scythe

that stacked male Ids like wheat, the tangled bales

and mowers mindless of what they worked with

a smear of jealousy for those who looked on, nails

bit to the quick; obsessive; seeking proof.

Promiscuous, the rumors reached her father—

collector of rare firsts, curries, and jazz—

who, having named her for a paradise

now watched her work grown men into a lather

and date the ones with money and big cars;

get high successive nights in different bars.

Trapped in the slow round of an ingénue,

she'd wave as I tipped a planter for a key

then lie back in the dapple off a pool . . .

taut, tremoring midsection streaked with oil;

tipped-back head; and sun-flocked hair aglow

with an experience not had for free.

What conversation could I have with her?

I couldn't speak from the deep part of hope

that saw her as a balm, one I'd use to dress

an ego burnished with aggressiveness.

Like Jack LaLanne, I'd shadow box, skip rope,

and deck the linebacker who grabbed her hair.

Who was she? Twirling like a barber's pole,

her vanities changed place with qualities

that call out still. My first experience

of separation from a shared ideal,

the breeze that raised her towel off the fence

and broke my thin composure by the trees

still comes to mind, heavy with sweat and oil.

Some night we'd catch a movie, then, on the walk home,

decide to take the long way through the park.

Where we could talk, and through the push and pull

light a connection tight as a chromosome

and cup our hands—together—round that spark.