Sun Dresses, Sandals
by Tracy Mitchell

A high clearing in rolling forest … girls
at play, girls turning heads. Boys’ heads
turning–sun dresses, sandals, bare feet, shorts
muscle shirts–grass gleaming green mirage.

You are a chimera, a trance. I am a quirk, a figment. We are
a concomitance, a synchronism, a coincidence pulled together
like cosmic magnets. We cannot, dare not, ask, lest we
unwittingly trigger a gestalt dissolve, a feared verity reappearing.

The sky is an unbearable Ooey-gooeyness
of layered culinary lasciviousness, white puffed drifting.
The late sunshine a golden olive oil cake–
aromatic, sprinkled with powdered Cuban cane sugar.

The heft, the imperative, that which is worth clinging for dear life to–
A dreamy, long, delicious afternoon.



 

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