My First Love
Some warm-enough summer evening in New England
played host to my boyfriend visiting.
More focused on the kisses surrendered to my neck
than how fast the times were at Ridgemont High,
I urged my first love to lead my upstairs,
pin me to pillows and advance in ways that’d make my friends jealous.
Untangling our arms and adjusting our shirt hems,
we ascended into another hallway,
bothered only by the barking of my guard-dog golden retriever,
always suspicious of anyone else offering love to me,
as they were her competition.
Drained after our encounter,
he drove on home, and I took to sleeping,
insistent on remembering how it felt to be adored
so I could replay it in a dream.
An hour later, stirred up from sleep by my brother
“Mom!”
She roused, fastening robe, a thunder down the stairs
“Is she okay?”
“Her eyes are rolling, she’s falling over”
Earlier, my hound’s oaky brown eyes
focused on my green ones,
though I was too busy, involved in his, a sweet blue.
In my pajamas, I was a torrent of worry,
fleeting towards my family.
My heart lurched as my father strained to lift her,
blonde, matted hair and massive tumors she carried as accessories.
Amazing, how quickly we packed ourselves into the car,
dog on mother’s lap, and I in the backseat,
pulling away from a brother who would watch the house.
In a white room, a woman in a more professional robe assessed her pain.
Caustic words like “test” and “seizure” circulated,
but as with everything, a decision was necessary.
At thirteen years old, I started my adulthood
and my ever-loving companion lost hers.
With hand to paw and souls outstretched,
I watched her eyes close in peace, and my parents’ in tears.
Though the truth was finality,
I could find no explanation as to why she wasn’t wagging her tail
in an effort to cheer up her owners, kiss their hands,
indicate without words that she was okay.
If I had stayed with her longer,
I may have caught the instance where she looked woozy,
tilted on her legs,
balance escaping her chocolate-chip cookie paws.
Something about the summer and girls craving attention,
I suppose,
but I am irritated that I ever clung moreso to him, considered him my first love,
when she always had been there,
trotting ever-nearer with a tennis ball in tow.
