THE WAY I LOVED JAMES DEAN
© Jane Piirto. All Rights Reserved.
In his red nylon jacket at the planetarium,
hiding out at the old mansion from that gang,
no cause to be a rebel: I would have loved him.
James—Jimmy—with his sidelong grin, those cute
glasses, shucks, blinks, a little wave in his hair,
shy, shambling, no football jock
a poet, not a hood.
Natalie as hot for him as for
splendor with Warren,
which reminds me of Shelley and her tragedy
with Montgomery, who reminds me of James Dean,
and there was Natalie mothering poor Sal, as I would have—
and your kisses, James!
I would have helped him too, Natalie.
Elizabeth, after Eddie-Debbie, you are not good
enough for the touch of him my mattress rose
and fell alone in my room with tears for crashes
in crushes in flames of giant lovers in Eden.
It was the purest love I’ve known for love’s sake,
in just 15-year need, the very greed for love
that’s unrequited. I murmured prayers to him before my prayer—
dear James Dean James Dean don’t be dead you can’t be dead don’t be don’t James
do James oh James oh.
I took up with Jesus soon after.