She had my heart at seventeen. Of her face, I remember the previous two blended, of a blue-eyed lounge singer skin no lighter than the bark of a bay tree. So the song goes – from my body. And feeling transfigures into the abstract – her touch. Over the Hills and Far Away.
Out by the pond heat sticks to my shoulders. A tug at the line. How the retriever seeks shelter in the shade of a great big oak. Where has brother gone? The afternoon winds down. My stomach gives a moan. Mum expects us home and the potatoes grow cold. Look under those birds of prey. Circling a spot a mile beyond the mountain.
The little ones giggle. I strum the old box like I’m sporting leather, and my fingers do not break. My hair slicked back for the occasion. I whistle what I know. My ear takes over, the wit in the blood of a kid growed up by the radio. Hum. Ol’ Timer creeps up like none other.
The proximity aches.
Nonetheless it sings in the space
between recall and create—
in plain view,
spurt out onto the sleight—
One big release.