This is a poem for Jennafur
who spelt her name wrong
but it wasn’t her fault
since that was how her whacked-out parents wrote it
on the hippie commune she was born into.

Jennafur, I knew you
for a very small while
during a very tumultuous period
– both of which (the time and the timbre)
you encouraged –
and I think of you
sometimes
and I think of what I did wrong
but more often
I think of what you did wrong
which was to rebuff my advances
possibly without recognizing them for what they were.

Sure, it’s been established
that it was improper for me
to call out your jerk boyfriend for being a stupid jerk
and maybe I shouldn’t have visited your old commune
to spelunk for some much-needed history
of what you were like before your family got deprogrammed.
Possibly
when I asked you to run away with me
across state lines
while seventeen
I should have been more clear about what I sought.

But you…
you were not sensitive to my needs.
You were not there
as a friend
to tell me to be more responsible
and less reprehensible
and maybe more reptilian,
to keep my blood cool
despite the temperatures you raised within me.

It was a rough couple of weeks with you
that short hot summer
and I’m sorry for how it turned out
but mostly sorry
that I didn’t get to kiss you
where and how
I had hoped.