the first time

her name was Martha.
she had long hair, it may
have been brown or blonde.
but long. you remember
that, how she had to move
it away from her face
to kiss you.
she was wearing a dress
that fell to her knees.
a light cotton
dress, it may have been
green.
you made love, which
wasn't love at all.
the two of you in the back
seat of a dodge dart
circa 1970.
the windows were down.
the road was dark where
you parked, beneath
the overhang of willow
trees. you remember
a dog barking nearby,
the bones of her back
in your hands
as she arched her body
towards you, you felt
the warm stickiness of
the vinyl seats on your
knees. how quiet you
were. how vocal she was,
as if you were both involved
in two different things.
you remember feeling
the surprise emptiness
of it all
that still lingers
even now, these years
later.