wading in a lake of swing dance music, jeans rolled up to the knee-
you were there with a sweat-soaked bandana on your head-
this was a dance under twinkling electric lights in your backyard.
the Moon was out, the stars were out, your smile was out, it was all gleaming
like a streetlight shining down on a graveyard of snow piling up beneath it.
we danced each step to bring the world closer to heaven on earth.
trees sat in the bleachers, an owl sat in one of the trees
smoking a corncob pipe. a pandemonium of fireflies
hovered in the air like an embodiment of all the choices we’d have to make.
i lifted you into the air, put you down,
twisted you into a dip- you responded to every movement of my fingers,
you were a piano that gave off heat.
when the night was over and everyone else went home
you and i sat on your porch drinking lemonade
while the Moon played a fiddle and the stars watched us,
giggling. we talked for an hour about people we knew,
the bible, what we’d do after graduating.
i told you a secret- do you remember it? i’m afraid
i’ve forgotten my own words, a squirrel who buried
an acorn in the soil then smoked too much weed
and forgot what should be remembered.
your parents stepped out onto the porch to suggest you get some sleep. we stood.
i held you close. i let you go. your hand lingered on my chest.
on the drive home your touch played in my head like a movie.
i didn’t know the movie would end with a Summer fling that smelled of pine and incoming trains,
before i left for Chicago, before you met the man you’d marry,
i didn’t know the movie would end with me walking away at Summer’s end,
into the inevitable rain after saying goodbye, our names appearing on screen
then being replaced by other names.

Ethan Mershon is a poet living in Wichita, Kansas. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming with: Meridian, Fourth River, The Paris American, and other journals.