Elaine, I loved your face, your hands, your name,
your voice, your touch, your toes like tickling moss,
the way you laughed the same at gain or loss,
the way you let me tell you, without shame,
the way the thought of you became a flame.
Elaine! I loved your mouth, your teeth, your toss
of hair, the winding way you came across
the river to my bed. Our small-town fame
grew long along the Delaware, half-known,
half swept away, for we were neither brave
nor strong enough to swim against the tide
but stuck in narrow straits and forced to hide,
till you, Elaine, left me and pain alone
to bury bliss, our baby, in the grave.
If you have any comments on this poem, Mary Meriam would be
pleased to hear them.