Eye Witnesses

We were both ten, decades ago.
Is she still living?
She was one of the three; I was the second.
The woods surrounding the summer camp
figuratively were full of fig leaves.
We went beyond the allowed path
and trespassed into the tree-tangled green shroud.
And why not?
There were no lions and tigers and bears
and through the leaves we could still glimpse the path back,
but no one could see us exploring forbidden places.
She had no brothers and I no sisters.
She pulled her dress up and panties down,
then turned slowly round and round four times.
"Now you," she commanded,
"I want to see it and more than a peek."
I obeyed.
Our mutual mysteries revealed, we went no further.
but maybe, just for a moment, closer, did we dare touch?
We were ten and curious, no more.
Crossed our hearts not to tell and no one else was witness,
except the rabbit.
It stood frozen next to the elm.
That profile with its singular dark eye,
that deadpan unblinking eye,
even now I see it
more clearly than the not so childlike child.

Richard Fein

If you have any comments on this poem, Richard Fein would be pleased to hear them.