by Camilla Jean Welsch
My lacy white blouse
was all splattered up the back
in a single stripe, from the wet and mud
spinning off the back wheel,
when we were home and done with our fun.
But that was no matter.
We had embraced under those old swamp trees,
where we were caught with our bikes
while it rained down from the sunny sky
and drops fell like liquid diamonds on our warm cheeks
once in a while through the branches and the leaves.
My hair was matted and warmed and blown
by the contrasting elements,
into a wisp and a mass:
a natural nest for sweet little birds with blue eggs
…or something like that.
And I guess I had a contact high
from your morning smoke,
How else should I remember you by?
Yes, you can say it happened, actually,
but it was a fantasy
I myself directed and contrived,
running willfully to meet the rain, the mud, the sun, the skin, the sky, your high,
and exactly who I wanted you to be,
by the power and magic of my body and my mind.
And now you are just a wisp and a mass of a man
with a muddy stripe up your back side.
But it is no matter.