from my unpublished second collection
I can’t say if we’ve been here before. We know the lay of land, the precise constellations, should be memorized,
that we’re all supposed to be friends. All it takes is attention, patience. But we’re lost. Early this morning,
Rick swung his water jug into a cactus, and I looked over at you. You invited him here, insisted.
But being right, as you learned in your management classes, doesn’t change the bottom line, doesn’t mean
you’ve won. Now he wants to sit in the shade until nightfall, and what I really want is to leave him here and take you
behind the rocks – and don’t you know there wasn’t a moon last night, unless it came up while we were sleeping?
Follow me, I tell you, let’s go, and you nod. I tell him we’ll split the water, but he wants to stick together, says he’ll follow me, too.
You hand me your sleeping bag — hey, take it easy, don’t drink it all. We have to make it last. You kiss me,
and raise our water to your lips: “To Nature.” The very air is burning, hot. Did it come up last night, the moon?
First published in The Malahat Review
Return to Home Page images and text © by Alpay Ulku
