Olivia Newton John

I am 7 or so
Lying underneath the dining room table.
The one that is reserved for special occasions
Like Christmas or Easter. The one we never use.
The one that sits with perfect table cloth,
Still white, lace in the shadow
Of the hutch
Holding the best dishes on display,
And lladros my dad bought for my mom.

The hutch looms over head
And me, underneath
The table, cloistered by white linen and lace
The sun illuminating the space from the window.
Up above, Lladros staring down approvingly,
Their white, porcelain faces,
All delicate in their position
As I lay the radio on the floor.

I am under the table
In the cell right off
The kitchen, in the room that is reserved for things
That never happen.
I push play on the recorder
And adapt to a pillow.
My ear is on the voice,
The voice is in my head.
My emotions run wild with
Love and lust and things I don’t even know about yet.
I cannot define what I have
With her at this moment.
I am too young to understand that
Lying on the floor underneath the table is a moment of
Terrific erections created by invisible beats from Australia.
And it keeps happening,
This meeting,
This time and space.
Nearly everyday
Underneath the dining room table.