As Kids On The Desmond Estate

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.

Our 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.