Always the summer of ’67, always, you
would remind me of the day of my arrival and the night of booming festivities;
the lanterns hung up on wooden bamboo posts, the wired lights in their suspended
grace – going down and going up, as if wanting to be reached – and the bulbs
in their alternate glow. I was but an unfamiliar face
in a sheath dress that went a few inches down my knees,
and a bob.
You were there and then you were there–
when my hair had laid down and my dress was just a dress.
On booming nights and fights, again and again, you
would walk up to me, and tell me: this was how it played and
you saw me standing alone