Innocence (1969)
by Karen Hildebrand
(a version of this was first published in South Carolina Review, Fall 2008)
It was the summer I saw
my mother scoop the sleeping dog
into her arms and I stopped breathing
until he wagged his tail.
Heat seared red-brick suburbs
melting tar, fresh cul-de-sac—
me, drenched in grassy teenage lust
backseat, Eddie Guetlein’s ‘56 Chevy
swimming pool parking lot after dark.
The good girls were at the slumber party
flannel pjs, juice cans rolled in their hair
lined up in sleeping bags, side by side
like matchsticks waiting to be struck.
Across the street, the boys idled
in Randy’s Buick, smoking Winstons.
It was the summer before
Dwight shot himself in the toe to avoid the draft,
before Buzz crashed, head-on, long before
the boys would replace their fathers,
that summer night when Candi’s red convertible
squealed round the corner, top down, bursting
I made out with Joey Guetlein’s older brother.
It was the summer dad walked in on the two of us
undone on the living room carpet,
raised holy hell. It was much later
before I understood my lovers
would always be my father—
his blade hard eyes— or not.
It was the summer my mother
would decide to put the dog down—
blind, incontinent, crazy tail still wagging.
