Olga

A month ago, I started seeing Olga;
she has marble-grey eyes and smells of strawberries.
On Saturdays, we drink hot apple-cider at Maude’s,
listening to live sets of bossa-nova and jazz. Maude’s
atmosphere suits us, but not like the darkness of my room. Olga
loves to lie on my bed and talk about Lennon and “Strawberry

Fields Forever” while I tune my guitar. She suggested a “Movie Night,”
a sleep over at my place. My mother would call her “forward,”
but I feel she moves at a good pace. “Amelie” allows for snuggling,
though “The Shinning” terrifies her. I’m all for snuggling,
yet there’s something about her screaming in the middle of the night
that excites me, her watery eyes focused forward

towards the screen. Next year, Olga will be a memory,
a blend of strawberries and grey eyes. Now she just cries
beneath my comforter and I look at her, quietly,
while she reaches for my icy hand. Quietly,
she curls up into the fetal position and a memory
is built out of Kubrik’s film and Olga’s cries.