Pm: The beach by the generator shack

The beach by the generator shack

There was oil in the water,
we were on a little beach.

Not the kind of beach that faces the sea,
but the kind against a murky lake...
all mud and tree trunks and alive.

The wet sand is showing rainbows.
I'm reminded of a grocery store parking lot,
the smell just begging for rain.

We are making sandcastles,
laughing and choking about who-knows-what-anymore,
speaking our own words together.
My hands are putting mud on you,
making little towers on your shoulder blade in dribble
and wiping them away.

We jump into the brown water,
and we are both too squeamish to go out far.
We both try to open our eyes underwater, only to see brown.
Pushing, pulling, daring, tangling for the first time.
Later I will blame it on the fumes,
but for a while I don't even know what I'm doing.

On a hike, you are sitting calmly
on a rock, with deerflies all around.
I'm swiping at them frantically, like king friggin kong out here.
"Just be still, and they'll leave you alone." Like fuck that'll work.
I've always been excitable,
and you've always wished people thought you calm.

We worked in the restaurant downstairs that night,
and each got a T-bone steak to eat.
upstairs in the bedroom,
after we finally stopped talking in the dark,
I heard your breath heavy and your blanket moving,
but now that the fumes have worn off,
I'm going to pretend that I don't hear.

In the morning, we'll sit on the front porch while
the old people come to the restaurant,
and your mother works the bar.

In the fall, we'll sit side-by-side on the bus.
The beach and the oil and the deerflies
will be very far away.
and so will we be very far away.

-Larson