
Photo by brewbooks
Callan sleepwalks the screenporch
accompanied by the wind (which
tugs her cream chemise in fitful jinks)
and her improbable Polish last name
its consonant-rich taunt sunk into her psyche
like some cypress splinter so long imbedded
it has gone past fester to mark a vessel
in her arm that God never intended
the house lizards, a pack of anoles,
know her only by the ghost heat fading
from her footsteps, watch her with quick
blinking eyes her unhurried pace
all the way to the edge of the portico
wreathed in night blooming cereus
and guarded by the sago palm swaying
an octopus all thick-hipped shadow
she dreams about a girl sweeter
than jasmine and brighter than a down east
sunrise in the middle of summer
running downhill holding hands and cruising
Broadway Bucksport shouting at boys
weaving fantasies about white weddings
and winters that never end lips red
and honey breath hanging in the air
Callan remembers every dream but not
the journey she makes each time
wakes up in her bed alone soles raw
from treading the sharp fronds a pain
somewhat less than being abandoned
by the person of her dreams and told
to grow up because first loves never last
except, she thinks, they do if they never heal
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