From the overlook at Thatcher Park,
there are trees upon trees, dappled
with patches of neatly farmed land,
cars coasting the roads
like droplets of mercury.
In the fields, the sun
blazes the grass into yellow ochre.
We sat here, quietly holding unlit
cigarettes in our mouths,
except the trees were pebbles
of orange and red, the fields
vibrantly green. So that it wasn’t really
here at all, but abstracted, distant,
relentless because of the way time moves.
Then, in the hush of the library,
we lay amongst the rows of books.
You kissed me, felt my breasts,
somewhere between psychology and
human bio.
And, all of the sudden,
your body went away
and was replaced by a trembling voice.
You wanted to apologize, for distance,
for time. Reminiscence is like that—
the way a cut doesn’t hurt until you
see the blood forming
from the rift in the skin.
--Molly Herrick 04.28.04
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