Thursday, December 23, 2010


 susan ambrosino

Suddenly you're wearing that ruffled swimsuit
you loved when you were five at Rutt Pond,
splashing silver ripples edging out your hands;
feet, knees under shimmering water's shiny surface,
face hot in the sun.
Noxzema on your sun-burned shoulders later that night
after eating steak grilled over hot embers
from wood collected along a winding path
that went nowhere
before you climbed in the black Buick
to ride home to a hot summer city night,
electric fan cooling, sleep drifting in and out,
the hubcaps and chrome on the Buick so bright
you saw the whole year reflected in them:
snow, Christmas trees, lilies, American flags,
notebooks and apples, scary masks and pumpkins,
that place down the block
you were not allowed
to go.

It's hard to know what sentence to display
on the landscape of now
sitting in a marina restaurant looking
at boats bobbing
on water shivering from lamp light,
sparkling white wine running through your blood
shifting your senses to the left
as reason toggles off and you sink
into sumptuous shrimp with garlic sauce,
laughing toward the blinding light
of your children's bright faces
sitting close across dinner smells,
chocolate volcano with whipped dairy fat,
knowing this will surely pass too soon too,
but for now
it's forever.

No comments:

Post a Comment