I have forgotten you
and your jeep, a Willy
with a canvas top, golf ball-sized dent
on the driver's side, three coffee stains -
one yours, two mine - and the four-inch
scratch on the dash.
I have no recollection
of that sweet and spicy English Leather,
your skin, or your moustache -
blonde fu man chu dwindling down
to the sharp angle of your jaw where
a tiny scar from a hockey puck lingered.
I have forgotten the necklace
you tied around my neck, a strand
of turquoise and heishi strung with love,
the two of us in tie-dyed tees and matching beads -
listening to Carly Simon, livin' the good ol' days -
not a breath of space between us.
No, I have no memory
of your full lips or green-eyed promise.
I don't ever think back to that hot
and humid summer,
that Sunday night
in an Illinois cornfield,
and your dad's '71 Cadillac,
virgin white.

© by Donna Pflueger.
Used with the author's permission.