Delores Jepps

It seems insane now, but

she’d be standing soaked

in schoolday morning light,

her loose-leaf notebook,

flickering at the bus stop,

and we almost trembled

at the thought of her mouth

filled for a moment with both

of our short names. I don’t know

what we saw when we saw

her face, but at fifteen there’s

so much left to believe in,

that a girl with sunset

in her eyes, with a kind smile,

and a bright blue miniskirt softly

shading her bare thighs really

could be The Goddess. Even

the gloss on her lips sighed

Kiss me and you’ll never

do homework again. Some Saturdays

my ace, Terry, would say, “Guess

who was buying Teaberry gum

in the drugstore on Stenton?”

And I could see the sweet

epiphany still stunning his eyes

and I knew that he knew

that I knew he knew I knew—

especially once summer had come,

and the sun stayed up till we had

nothing else to do but wish

and wonder about fine sistas

in flimsy culottes and those hotpants!

James Brown screamed about: Crystal

Berry, Diane Ramsey, Kim Graves,

and her. This was around 1970: Vietnam

to the left of us, Black Muslims

to the right, big afros all over my

Philadelphia. We had no idea

where we were, how much history

had come before us—how much

cruelty, how much more dying

was on the way. For me and Terry,

it was a time when everything said

maybe, and maybe being blinded

by the beauty of a tenth grader

was proof that, for a little while,

we were safe from the teeth

that keep chewing up the world.

I’d like to commend

my parents for keeping calm,

for not quitting their jobs or grabbing

guns and for never letting up

about the amazing “so many doors

open to good students.” I wish

I had kissed

Delores Jepps. I wish I could

have some small memory of her

warm and spicy mouth to wrap

these hungry words around. I

would like to have danced with her,

to have slow-cooked to a slow song

in her sleek, toffee arms: her body

balanced between the Temptations’

five voices and me—a boy anointed

with puberty, a kid with a B

average and a cool best friend.

I don’t think I’ve ever understood

how lonely I am, but I was

closer to it at fifteen because

I didn’t know anything: my heart

so near the surface of my skin

I could have moved it with my hand.