Not An Accident

so much as a happening, the name
for that thing in the seventies. 1975: I learned
that summer the term babysitter

meant to be toyed with, explored. As if I were
a vase with many holes. She asked
me if I would like to make

love with a boy, said she thought it would
be so much fun. I let her tell me anything
while I stroked her fluffy yellow hair, dropped

beetles in it to see how far they fell
before slowing, catching on the strands.
Then two years later, on the grass, naked

psychedelics just for target practice: a daisy
on her forehead, a rose on her thigh.
I forgot my pants, what my feet

were for, a mother’s face. A pine branch,
leaves, and carrots everywhere. I was
thirsty, all that time. Why are you so

angry, you ask now, as the roots
of the tree loom and swing beneath
us. Why can’t you just let it be?