Later, going back to where music poured from the ramshackle pavilion
by Lyn Lifshin

not even a sign. Cove
Point. The dance hall
beams shuddered.
Scrubby weeds cover
where Pinky Johnson’s
fiddle doesn’t echo
in the dead leaves.
Summer nights,
aching to be asked
to dance. The lake’s
breeze couldn’t keep
my cheeks from
flushing, wild to not
look like I cared
too much until some
one tapped my
shoulder. Fern musk,
trees bent into the
water. Without my
glasses, Pinky’s bow
and fingers blurred,
dancers, a swirl in the
lantern light until
the last dance, the kiss
in the center then
gliding home in
the dark, vowing not
to wash off that taste



 

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