Our Flux

by Ben Stringfellow

 

You stick out above the horizon

at the edge of the dock

like the largest splinter

as I come down from the lake house,

walking barefoot to you.

 

You’re waiting for me. Waiting

for the summer night’s breeze,

swept up from the lake,

to end with a rough towel

placed over your shoulders.

 

I’m floating on the infinite crests

of waves filling the space

between us, our flux, our oscillating

love, a void filled by cold

sunshine. I’ll make it.

 

I think, I know, I might make it

to you, make it to that edge

where our world ends

and your legs run the lines

in the wood to become

 

soft planks themselves. It’s a movie,

this scene, like each step

I take is a frame gone by, flicked

through in a flipbook

of polaroids. But I want to cut it,

 

rip it, rather. Then maybe I won’t

have to make it to that edge,

get close enough to smell

the salt-licked water on your back

or to feel the sun absorbed

 

from your black hair

or to turn you around and see

the green in your brown eyes, rippled

like life-bearing veins,

like static across a countryside.