Women At The Russian River Poem by Richard Bunch

“Sorta cigar shaped, ” she urged.

“Go get the ball, Orbis, ” said another.

“A twelve year old kid, imagine that, he got religion and melanoma.”

The Irish Setter emerged with a green tennis ball
and shook his fur.

“Are the knower and the known one? ” she asked,
directing her sunglasses into the shades.

Little Jonathan mopped his curls and asked
over and over “Are you happy, Mom? ”

Joni adjusted her halter. A speck greened across the sky;
Orbis leaped the waves.

“You know she died for love, honey.”

With her body still browning, Joni continued to glean
from that novel yellowing
shapes of her sounding yen.