POEM FOR F. SCOTT

POEM FOR F. SCOTT


She never photographed well,
not by standards today, but believe
me, we all know what whippoorwills say
in July, white-washed gazebos of summer
homes on lakes, with docks, and the girls
who sun on them, and the sun
that bleaches leg hairs soft,
and leg hairs that bead little sweat,
and lake water that washes it away,
leaves a film, now dried, shimmery
salty stars, the Milky Way across
constellations of freckles.

We know how she looked,
squinting, shading her eyes
with her palm turned up, so
the shadow angled like the
creases of her eyes, when
she smiled.

We can’t talk of white
without you, Scott.
Not the sails on boats, or
linen on the line, not napkins
folded for dinner, the orchestra
now here, setting up. We tug
open the shades, catch this afternoon
sliding sideways.

The girls now standing on the dock,
picking up their towels, with a flip.
They slip on sandals and start up
the stairs, weathered boards crooked
with seasons. We know this hour
tastes of lavender, we hear ice
crack in the glass.

Fireflies and bullfrogs begin.
The girls are dressing, washing
away lake water, replacing
summer’s sheen with powder.
Swimming and sun, swimming and sun,
hair tossed and tangled, smoothed now
in finger curls, bobs tucked behind ears.

Still, the squint remains,
the dimple when she smiles
says slow Southern style,
Aw, do tell.

So you tried, Scott, to capture
this evening white, the breeze of
linen and laughter. Cut-glass
throwing candlelight.

She crafted paper dolls, painted your face
on them, pasted them in letters, said,
O do join us--Summer is divine.
You rented a car, started to drive.
Relationships begin with a suitcase.

Now we have train stations,
empty platforms, pocket watches
not wound, cafes where the lost generation
could be found.

Doorknobs still turn exactly the same
and catch. The girls return from the dock,
no matter the year. They are 17, and laughing,
and the sun flashes golden their wet footsteps.