Poem By Lori Desrosiers
My best friend Bonnie
used to hook her little finger around mine.
We would take the train into the City,
walk around the West Village,
shop for beads and baubles.
Our elbows kissed,
arm around the other’s waist.
Squares said we looked like
we just stepped off the boat:
kerchiefs tied behind long auburn hair,
matching denim skirts swung like bells,
narrow ankles tucked in Chinese shoes.
We knew we were cool,
going for the hippy look.
Cross-legged on her quilt-covered bed,
we beaded headbands on a small loom,
or embroidered our bell-bottom jeans.
Oh, the intoxication of secrets,
of unrestrained giggles,
how we let the boys
touch us everywhere but there.
Vaginas safely harbored
under layers of Carter’s and slips,
white upon white,
under denim, under patches,
future poet, future artist,
humming the Grateful Dead,
“…where does the time go? ”