I was her first, my lion-headed girl.

In the movies when we were young

her skin was forever flesh and

her hair a summer gold before we went away.

But we stayed in the dark, untouched,

and we parted, unspeaking.

The second, in college, in the spring 

at home again in that same theater

and my lips to her neck, we left

before the credits rolled up

and into my car where I took

down her shirt by the button and

planted on her opening chest a kiss

on each pink and cream nipple,

down I went to the skirt and I

rocked her in the car until our movie

let out without us, before our

final finish. I drove her home

and afterwards, her hair was not less

golden, her eyes were no less blue

and always we'll have those dates,

those two days but no more.