In kindergarten, you had kids
stick crayons up their noses
and walk around like walruses.
I was teacher’s pet, sang Mass
with nuns, made sacrifices.
I had designs on the paperboy,
took his little red wagon; tried
to sleep with a boy on his mat
at naptime. Carla became
a Brownie, learned to draw
horses so you would marry her.
You made a finger trap from
your milk bottle wire with intent
to torture. Now you and I play
games: cat and mouse, push
‘n pull, tit for tat. But flash back
to that first night when I refused
to let you get away. We touched,
we fit, we knew, and you said
you’d found “the One.” And on
this spring day, remember how
we, our long hair cut short, walked
into our life together. Without father,
mother, scripture, or God, we said
we’d take, we’d have, we’d do.
And we did, gladly, all these years.
by Margaret Stetler
Editor’s Note: I refuse to concede that love poems are dead. Happy anniversary, Maggie.