Summer and Smoke

by Paloma

I told you about her.

The way she rolls a brown shoulder

in the face of the purple dusk

I warned you about her.

Be careful, son, of that wide mouth

that hungers, that red

poppy of a mouth.

But there you went, heart first, into

the fresh curve of a hip without looking back.

The white dust in your eye that

carried the sound of her name

like the crescendo of a white crested wave--

leaving long fingered seaweed on the sand,

on your brow.

Sit and let me tell you about her…

She is in the dark doorways, she is leaning

out of the open window with her hair

strewned among the yellow tulips.

The round soft arms smelling

of rain, of lush moss in a cove.

I have known her.

Tell me how you caught a blush of her cheek in

the noonday cast on an alabaster shell.

How the saltwind over the sea

rubs the back of your neck and you

turn to see if it is her….

Stand with me under this indigo night

that sits, heavy, on your shoulders.

You and I, admiral and captain,

father and son

Tell me how she broke your heart…

and I will remember my summer of Marguerite…