Poetry Porch: Poetry


by Carl Boon

I rinsed the salt from my hair,
faced twilight in the garden:
the twirling of cherry leaves,
the revving of motorbikes,
glasses of Baltika beer.
I was fastened to the place,
locked between the mountains
and the sea, the scent
of mackerel, the uncanny
thought of actually being there —
across the world —

to emerge from the shower,
to be one of them. Their smells,
their River Market, their boys
scrambling at soccer balls.
Later in bed Id let my eyes
glaze, let the prints on the wall
move toward me and back,
inviting, disinviting. Id memorize
their names: Galina, Ruslan,
Evgeny with his pick-up truck
of cantaloupes.

Id get used to the stones,
the drunks on their stoops
drinking last falls madeira
from plastic bottles. Id get used
to the persistent Crimean heat,
the uncles persuading me
the Serbians were right. My hair
dried quickly. Two girls came
to the gate in Yankees caps.
We lunged to each other,
but did not touch.

Copyright © 2016 by Carl Boon.