LEAST NOT YET.

A BOY AND GIRL IN 1964 AND THEIR YOUNG LOVE.

Milka liked it
when Baruch
took her hand
and they walked

to bridge over the river
and talked
or went to see
the peacocks along

the other lane
with the tall trees.
Her  brothers knew now,
but said nothing,

being Baruch's friend's,
they took it
he'd lost hold
of his senses.

She smiled
when one said this.
She didn't say
about the kiss.

Just the one,
that one time,
last time,
unexpectedly.

She liked
that her mother
didn't object
when Baruch came

to pick her up;
her look said it:
no hanky-panky,
you're still 14

even if he's 16,
her gaze said all that,
she assumed
as Baruch nodded his head

when he came
and her mother smiled.
Milka liked it
when her hand

felt his, his soft flesh
on hers, his thumb rubbing
the back of her hand
in slow movement.

He talked
of the latest Elvis film
or LP he'd bought
(promised to take her

to the cinema to see
or his home to hear
the new LP
(she'd have to see).

She talked
of her brothers' teasing
or the girls at school
who suggested she did

such and such
(even though she knew
she'd never) trying to be
with it or clever.

She liked watching
the river flow
beneath the bridge
as they stood and talked,

their hands holding,
their bodies near,
the summer sun above.
Was this for real?

Was this love?
She liked it
when they watched
the peacocks strutting,

their calls, their tails
and feathers,
and Baruch near,
his closeness warming,

his hand keeping her close,
hip to hip, her body alive
to every touch.
But no hanky-panky,

at least not so far,
not beyond
the limits set,
least not, not yet.