Karen was always luminous. The blonde intrepid
while I remained her dark-haired shadow. She pulled us
through a long tunnel of trees. The pale light of spring
poured through the branches. Their leaves
streaming in the wind like minnows. Our bodies rippled
through the cool radiance until we arrived at the gate.
An iron rib. We passed through quietly inhaling
the green breath of grass, hedge, moss and vines.
ur souls were in the garden of The Hesperides
minus the golden apples - only the gospel
saying we had sinned, trespassed on private property.
I was on edge, afraid of getting caught
but somehow she diffused into the domestic body
of its landscape. Her nails became bark, her hair the yellow wings
of a bird, her tongue the slick arch of a leaf tasting
everything the wind or rain would bring. And when we left,
most of her stayed whether peeled, shed or articulated in the language
of scent and pollen. She shifted with the time change - a cultivated
species. I was all silhouette. Her mortal outline. The ghost writer
she continues to summon.