Summer and Smoke
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…