by John Brooks
Lakehouse
David arrived late,
with his looping earrings
and an old machete.
Roland and I had eyes
already on constellations.
In a simple gesture, David
cut the moon
so it fell into a trio
of luminous slices
and we held them
until our palms were
scorched. In unison, we
flung them skyward, nightward,
and they coalesced into that familiar
white sphere, and we swore
to each other that we wouldn’t
forget but it’s too soon
to know if we did.
In the morning, all of us—
nineteen and shirtless and eager—
took the canoe onto the lake
to spot the rumored
ospreys and the weapon
just lay there in the hull,
its dull blade pristine,
no residue, no memory,
nothing glowing.
John Brooks is a painter, poet, and curator based in Louisville, Kentucky. His visual work has been exhibited around the United States, including solo exhibitions in 2022 in New York and Los Angeles. His poetry has been published in Assaracus, Plainsongs, and North by Northeast.
תגובות