first kiss

you remember the girl next door.
Karen was her name.
her father was in the navy.
they were here now,
having traveled from Hawaii.
she was tall and lean
at thirteen
and had a bullwhip where she
would snap crabapples
out of your hand.
sometimes she would demand
that you kiss her.
which you would, pecking badly
at lips until she calmed
you down and showed you how.
she knew so much.
she told you about pineapples
on the island.
sugar cane.
she knew the stars,
pointing them out at night
as you both lay on
a picnic table in the back
yard. she made you sweat
made you made you crazy with
young love and passion.
you would never have
her. she would move again
by September,
disappearing into the world
but never far from your mind,
that summer etched
in memory.