Junction full of light
The relief of rainstorm. They were both happy
to see again. The court choir broke open
on the tar where had been painted
lines to guide players toward the netting
Now, the water had pooled
there, and the court, abandoned, reflected
a willful blue
On the opposite side of town—pass the potatoes,
the peas, the mild hot sauce, the mussels brewed
in so much salt water, so much stew—Though it is dark,
the wine bottles quiet themselves, plump lifeboats
dusty in the cupboard. They didn’t expect to board ship,
but it rocks them to sleep over—
Now, the pool promised infinity
the cleanness of swimming, the moon,
a basket of fish, last night, or was it the night
before—she had stopped tallying
knowing wishes could be sliced
easily in half, the tongue punctured
Now, the court had given its declaration,
a kinship—or stillness, silver to dip a finger into
despite the thrumming that had been.
He told her that the reds in the picketed
gardens would seem richer in after rainlight
and from then on, so they did.
Author’s Bio
Tola Sylvan is a poet and writer from Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Kestrel, Poetry, and elsewhere
