The First Summer Night



Wind from the window layers my hair in unaccustomed
patterns.  Heat lightning flickers, once.  I wait, but never hear
thunder.  The AC won't work--you said it was fine
last Saturday

	       before nodding off.  Strawberries from
your grandfather's garden lie beneath you, wrapped
in a brown bag.  You asked me to drive home after dinner, 
and chess with your father, to rest your eyes. 
We left

	late.  You sleep at my right.
I love you for that simple trust, for sleeping
while I drive.  You breathe in, shift, again,
to the other side

		   of the seat.  The curls in your hair gather
in rings
and hide your eyes from the dark

	   			 of stars.  Our route winds
between constellations.  I savor the curves,
the inclines, sharp and
gentle.  Cars pass, veiled behind

				   headlights.  Sixth Street
looks like a web of Christmas lights, strands draped
from branch to branch, lined up in long rows.  

 

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