Judith Knows 1962 Poem by Terry Collett

Judith knows
this part of
the woods, knows

the trees, birches,
beech, field maple,
knows the pond

where we meet,
oval shaped,
grass surround

where we sit.
The water's skin
is murky,

ripples where
dragonflies
touch and skim

the surface.
Ducks swim by
gracefully.

Marilyn
Monroe's dead,
Judith says,

studying
the ducks swim,
overdose

they reckon.
So I heard,
I reply,

it was on
our old white
radio

on the news.
I have a
black and white

photograph
on my wall,
but don't tell

Judith that;
after all
she may get

jealous of
that factor.
I like her,

I utter
expressing
a small grief.

Judith says,
more than me?
Anyway

she was too
old for you,
old enough

to be your
own mother.
Not as much

as I do
you of course,
I tell her,

and it's true,
after all
Marilyn

occupies
a small part
of my dreams,

boyhood kind;
while Judith
occupies

each moment
when she's there
and not there.

But I don't
tell her that;
we sit and

stare at the
pond and ducks,
hands touching

each other's,
she thinking
if I'll kiss

what to do
or to say,
I'm thinking

of her bra
and what it
holds so firm,

the outline
seen through her
off white blouse

as she turns,
and within
me something

deeply burns.