Thursday, January 27, 2005
That morning, we swam in turquoise and swore
it wasn’t cold, though soon scampered up the rocks
to sit in the sun and swat the ruthless flies.
I saved you from a rattlesnake:
scolded it gently into the bushes
then ushered you calmly past.
We rented a boat and roared out into the lake
you stood up front, a breathing bowsprit
wind blowing your animal scent sternward.
At noon, we paddled into the park and found
a private beach, ate cheese and olives and almonds
then swam again in shallow green.
We ate supper on a battle-scared picnic table,
listened to Edna’s wavering voice read “Recuerdo,”
drank cheap wine until the summer sun finally set.
We went inside and talked of crazy neighbours,
the inside-outness of our different sides,
of ghost trains passing before us.
A bear stopped by the dumpster in the night.
When we came out, its eyes glowed from across
the road, waiting for us to go back to sleep.
As if that were possible, giddy as we were
with wine and words and the wonder
of being together again at last.