We Recline

We are reclining in Adirondack chairs, looking over the lake on the Fourth of July. It is serene and the waters reflect the milky oranges and purples of the sky.
The fireworks rise over the hills beyond the lake, and we recline further.
I put my arm around her out of pattern. It is a gesture of affection done everywhere, yet today, I don't know what to think.
The controlled explosions light up the sky, illuminate our faces, and she dips her head onto my shoulder. I shudder, the last time I was in this arrangement I was in love, and this isn't love. But I am happy.
We joke about the fireworks, and the fireflies scoring the sky, and the fires burning on the beaches around the lake. We recline further, our soft backs against hard wood, our feet digging into the camp sand.
It is late, I've got to sit duty over my bunk tonight, on this Saturday, the Fourth of July. I turn to her ready to say this, and out of instinct, our faces peering together, I instead lean forward and find myself in a kiss.
A tremble.
We are two on a beach in the evening, and we recline.
As we walk back, our hands slide together. They are different from the hands of one I used to hold, but I find comfort in them.
What do I make of myself?
It won't last beyond a week, but I do all I can to not think of it.

Some Poetry

Just three poems from the summer of last year (2007)

The Bird Nest

There was a bird nest

on the deck posts behind my house.

It is ruined now, however,

blown down after the storm.

I found it in a jumble:

thick straws entwined in peat mosses,

tatters of yarn meshed with naked bronze leaves.

I say jumble because it was not earthy, as nests should be,

But rather, it was more unnatural; bizarre; human, dare I say it; a freak accident of a bird nest, like a plane crash or collision.

Only I

never found the surviving eggs.

 

 

Prop

The journal that I use as a prop, it’s

simple; brown with a black binding.

The ghost of a price tag inhabits the back cover, confusing its readers as to top or bottom.

Margins are placed at odd angles, like a house of mirrors, they are off by centimeters, but it makes miles of difference.

On its pages are written nothings.

An asylum of sense-enticing ponderings that

One must have written while back stage.

Clues to survival or advice on life.

It reads like a book of love written by a teenager in ennui, devoid of interest.

Fourth of July

I wonder what my friends are doing back home.

Last year we stared and chased our pretty girlfriends

In the fields near Nader’s decrepit warehouses in the

juvenile Afternoon, on the Fourth of July.

Come Evening,

            [Although we didn’t know it,

            or care to record it at the time,]

we experienced what it was to be

American Children

On the Fourth of July.

As fireworks illuminated our faces

and

kisses peppered our lips, we

laid in the grassy fields near Nader’s decrepit warehouses,

under the sycamores lit by erotic fireflies us.