John Logan

The Picnic

It is the picnic with Ruth in the spring .

Ruth was third on my list of seven girls

But the first two were gone (Betty) or else

Had someone (Ellen has accepted Doug) .

Indian Gully the last day of school ;

Girls make the lunches for the boys too .

I wrote a note to Ruth in algebra class

Day before the test . She smiled , and nodded .

We left the cars and walked through the young corn

The shoots green as paint and the leaves like tongues

Trembling . Beyond the fence where we stood

Some wild strawberry flowered by an elm tree

And Jack in the pulpit was olive ripe .

A blackbird fled as I crossed , and showed

A spot of gold or red under its quick wing .

I held the wire for Ruth and watched the whip

Of her long , striped skirt as she followed .

Three freckles blossomed on her thin , white back

Underneath the loop where the blouse buttoned .

We went for our lunch away from the rest ,

Stretched in the new grass , our heads close

Over unknown things wrapped up in wax papers .

Ruth tried for the same , I forgot what it was ,

And our hands were together . She laughed ,

And a breeze caught the edge of her little

Collar and the edge of her brown close hair 

That touched my cheek . I turned my face in-

to the gentle fall . I saw how sweet it smelled .

She didn't move her head or take her hand .

I felt a soft caving in my stomach

As at the top of the highest slide ,

When I had been a child , but was not afraid ,

And did not know why my eyes moved with wet

As I brusged her cheek with my lips and brushed

Her lips with my own lips . She said to me

Jack , Jack , different than I had ever heard ,

Because she wasn't calling me , I think ,

Or telling me . She used my name to

Talk in another way I wanted to know .

She laughed again and then she took he hand ;

I gave her what we both had touched ; can't

Remember what it was , and we ate the lunch .

Afterward we walked in the small , cool creek

Our shoes off , her skirt hitched , and she smiling ,

My pants rolled , and then we climbed up the high

Side of Indian Gully and looked

Where we had been , our hands together again .

It was then some bright thing came in my eyes ,

Starting at the back of them and flowing

Suddenly through my head and down my arms

And stomach and my bare legs that seemed not

To stop in feet , not to feel the red earth

Of the Gully , as though we hung in a

Touch of birds . There was a word in my throat

With the feeling and I said , It's beautiful .

Yes , she said , and I felt the sound and word

In my hand join the sound and word in hers

As in one name said , or in one cupped hand .

We put back on our shoes and socks and we

Sat in the grass awhile , crosslegged , under

A blowing tree , not saying anything .

And Ruth played with shells she found in the creek ,

As I watched . Her small wrist which was so sweet

To me turned by her breast  and the shells dropped

Green , white , blue , easily into her lap ,

Passing light through themselves . She gave the pale

Shells to me , and got up and touched her hips

With her light hands , and we walked down slowly

To play the school games with the others .

 

 

Contemporary American Poetry - Edited by Donald Hall - 2nd - Penguin Books - 1972