Summer of Water Balloons

That summer, I was still wearing undershirts 

though too hefty for them.

It was the summer of water balloons.

One of us crouching over a facet,
another knotting long ones and plump ones,
plump as a baby's belly. Then we'd lob

each other gleefully and with vengeance.
From high embankments, we'd drench

innocent shoppers wheeling their carts.

That week, I was the only girl not asked
to Louise's sleepover. But the boys needed my help.

I was to knock on Louise's door - and they'd blast
her hall with dripping balloons.
Later, she would upbraid me, saying,
"How dare you - you stained my mother's carpet."

But that night, I went bike riding with the boys.

We raced past Schenley Park, 

past the stone mouthed panthers guarding Panther Hollow, 

panthers roaring with vengeance and glee. 

The sky was oiled an olive black,

moon slivered in its silver shell.

A sharp wind swept across my face and yes,
there was this one lanky Irish kid,
head of the pack, who'd been adopted by
a childless Jewish woman.

At times, he'd ride without holding the bars,
like treading water, or daring fate. Then
surprisingly, he rode to the place where
I was. My heart was open.

Home, Mummy scolded me, "Out so late, four kids
still up, what were you thinking?" 

Like four ducklings, I gathered them into the tub, 

scrubbed them down, wrapped them in towels,

smoothed their feathers.

Then, I opened the drawer to my pink
diary with its brass lock - I listed
the names of all the boys on the ride, and
wrote in detail about the lanky Irish kid.