Let’s do this again, go back to the pasture
and get drunk watching horses. Let’s throw up
in the weeds and kiss anyway while summer
drops fruit all around us, our thumbs
in the hollow of its throat. If it sounds like I’m falling love,
I’m not. Love stakes its claim in the city,
it seeks the approval of others, the attention of streetlights. Love stretches
our shadows behind us walking home at the end of bad nights.
Those streets are so ugly, let’s not drag them
out there and flatten the grass, let’s not
talk about it in front of the horses.
I will follow you behind the barn again, down to the river and next time
we’ll jump in together, make sure my hair gets wet.
If I’m blushing don’t let it distract you, that’s your eyelashes
against my cheeks, just me coming back from the dead,
it will not mean what you think. When I pull you from the water,
your hands on my shoulders, the sand still warm and the night
filled with angles we could play, my eyes stroking yours
will not mean what you think. Without pictures I’d forget
we ever did this. I won’t be grateful. Do not be impressed.
Michael Landreth is a graduate of the creative writing program at Auburn University and currently lives in Moscow, Idaho, where he is working toward his MFA in poetry at the University of Idaho.
Scrapbook Marginalia originally published in Specter Magazine.