he was on the verge of the atlantic
where the coast is lined with small
hotels and families on vacation
when he met her: smiling girl
with sun-browned limbs and
a curious, lopsided smile
he remembers her now only
in words, adjectives, snatches
of descriptions used in retrospect
('blue eyes' or 'sand-colored hair')
he feels he might be able to form
a picture, part of her face or
possibly a more crude vision,
girl bent, fishing for a dropped
object in the waters of a hotel pool
spine prominent,
swimsuit white,
and wet,
nearly too small
and, if not in words, he remembers
the scenery surrounding them: palm trees
balmy night-air, ugly tourists with veined legs
and ugly swim caps
he remembers saying goodbye,
the way she squinted through
dollar-store sunglasses to maybe
catch a glimpse of him
in the backseat of his father's car
because he was waving
hoping he might embroider
upon his thoughts or eyelids
her image
but only remembers
'hand on hip'
'waving lazily'
'yawning, i think'
(autumn 2005)
Ryan, you capture fragmentation superbly in this piece; recolletions are indeed like this. Well written. Rgds, Ivan
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I love the end, it tops the whole thing off its strange how you meet some people and never see them again, how certain things stick its like a 30 second romance