St. Anne

 

 

i have been away.

not way-way away, but far enough to try to wipe my city-slate clean, for a few days, and carve a nice tan-line through my pale olive-y skin, and beer and popsicles and pills and ponds, and i would close my eyes and not hear anything but the dock creaking underneath the feet of those hopeful fishing boys, or the sound of a bass splashing out of the water angrily, and the smell of bonfire smoke penetrated my clothes and hair for days, and it took a while for my eyes to adjust to life without street lights, and a big back yard where cats chase bunnies, and cheap cigarettes in pickup trucks, something slow and normal to ease my heart-rate, and we sat on the porch to chain-smoke and watch the clouds open up, and you said, ha-ha, let's kiss in the rain so we did and the wind blew a little across the corn and my feet got wet