Love-in, Easter Day, 1968

We were not about to get naked,
my sort-of brothers, sisters, I. We
ran the open field of skin littered
with blankets and weed and guitars and

sex. We tried not to look, but a man
strolled by, black guitar thankfully placed,
strumming We Shall Overcome and Kiss
My Ass. A grandmother, freed from her

Lily St. Cyr’s, danced arms up, unshaved,
looking a little like Bonzo. We
ignored the speeches. Ignored music.
And tried not to look. Ugly bodies

and beautiful. Embarrassing. None
of us would need , you know, “that” talk. We
skimmed fleshy blankets with an orange
Wham-O Frisbee. And tripping

over many reshaping couples,
ducked past a group of—what in the hell
are they doing?—chasing the neon
disc into the skinless peonies.

Published: Tidal Echoes, UAS Literary & Arts Journal 2008