Issue 3, March 2009
Truth | previous next story |
Rebecca Keith
There: We play pinball at Motor City. Then you play me a goodnight song— Sleepwalking or
Just a piece of pecan pie, and you that’s all I want. We skip work to hike the red path that feeds into
the green, pick out walking sticks, step from rock to rock, watch for moss. I try to remember
the trail markers from years ago. We play tag on the street or navigate a subway closure,
service interruption, walk to the deli for three-dollar sandwiches. In the park we visit the
turtles as they sun on the rocks, dip under the algae. On a rainy afternoon, we make up the
worst band names, write fake metal songs, freestyle-walk down the three flights of your
apartment building. We are in the rose garden in July, naming flowers, at the Met in
December, frost-feet, our heels clicking around the fountain.
Here: A dog leads us down a path through body-sized leaves, ferns like giant lace fans, to a
waterfall that pours into a swimming hole. Freshwater shrimp ghost past our toes, coquís
come out to sing an evening song. It’s a pool I can’t see the bottom of. The water grows
wish-rings with our moves and the small moves of a frog. I play Marco to your Polo, then
float face-up to more stars than I’ve ever seen up North. I’ve never been to this country
before. You towel me off, pull me from the rock to the banks. The path back is steep but a
little easier. Now the vines curled around the huge, elephant-foot trees appear less like
snakes, more like themselves. Palms shake loose coconuts. We’ve learned to rub fresh-cut
banana stalks on our bug bites. Bougainvillea is like your homestate, a word I want to say
and smell. Bamboo reaches by the decade towards the banana trees. I want you to know, this
one is true, as I remember it.
Copyright © 2007-2009 Storyscape Journal ISSN 1941-3157