Vol 10, Num 4 :: 2011.02.25 — 2011.03.10
It attacked at the toll booth
The window was down
the attendant protecting herself from the stain
of transacted money
with latex gloves
I was not
so defended
and really what could I have done
at my age?
The first long draft of warmth
the change evident in a season
of
despair
the infection immediate
Me
powerless
unable
to do more than ride the railings across the bay
certainly not to raise
the window
There it was
the scent
of camellia in Grandma’s garden
the fresh sinews of youth
bursting
to the pleasures of grass and sky
the wide wonder of the ocean losing its winter omen
the days
we skipped school to play soldier
the moments
we kissed and the house shuddered with opening doors
the children
we pushed
on creaking swing sets
in playgrounds innumerable
the departed
come home
the summers that lingered
the days I felt whole
the nights I drove dad’s beige Maverick
way too fast
down a highway
that led all the way
to
the
horizon
Some fragrant stew that was
some potent inquisitor
When at last
I replaced the glass between memory and me
I sighed a lament
for youth
Not that it was lost
but that the young
should be so ignorant of what was in the air
With no capacity to resurrect moments that have not yet been
they simply skim the surface of a very shallow sea
It is for those
with age
to know what ledges and depths these waters conceal
And to be occasionally
assaulted and affirmed
by all that will not die.
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