FOR NOW

FOR NOW

 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.