i can’t help but think

of the spring fling
when you taught me to swing
dance on the polished gym
floors you sent me twirling
sing sing sing
and a string of pearls

after that we sat
in the hatchback
(of your used ford)
pretending it wasn’t as cold
as april in boulder
you put your hand
on my shoulder
and we listened to the rain

there’s a park we rode to
when you fought with your father
where cottonwood leaves
rustle in summer breezes
along a winding stream
we fished for crawdads
and hunted garters
in the tall grass
collecting bones
near the fox den
to hide in a hollow
where they were forgotten
by the winter
you fell through the ice

the year the beaver dam
flooded the woods
we skated between the trees
of the frozen forest
until park rangers came
and took them away
to preserve the landscape
they said
(it was never the same)

later that night
when the rain subsided
we turned off the headlights
and coasted down the drive
that led to the park
felt our way in the dark
to the water’s edge
to talk about letters
and where we’d be
in the coming years
and all of our hopes
(but none of our fears)

the night grew thick around us
seeping into our pores
stardust and meteors
entire worlds
we breathed it in
and it consumed us
lifting us off the ground
to swallow us whole
until we were nothing
(and everything)

-Carolyn Fridman, 2020