Tuesday, March 21, 2017

The Lighthouse (Day 62)


Hand in hand they walked 
for miles, cellophane heat rippling 
in the middle distance. No shade, 
no shade, and it was hot there 
on the blacktop, where stillness 
settled between the pines growing 
within throwing distance 
of the shoulder. 
Their palms sweated, salt air 
passing from her to him, 
and back again, 
and, always, the lighthouse, 
somewhere off to the right, though
often out of view. His face 
reddened, her nose burnt, and 
they longed for water, and for 
the bicycles they earlier refused, 
as if they had forgotten how to ride. 
Perhaps, if they had practiced 
how to pedal and steer,
how to keep their balance,
they wouldn't have lost their way 
and become separated, 
he at one end of a long, sere road, 
she, all the way out here, at the other, 
neither able to put one foot in front 
of the other, to retrace the miles again.
The lighthouse is no longer 
on her right, but behind her, far 
enough behind that, though she 
sometimes strains to see,
she can barely discern its beacon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

No comments:

Post a Comment