POEM

Friday Night at the Drive-in

By Julia Tilley

The sun empties itself in August heat of a yellowjacket field. We play there but only so close to the glare of browning hay. Time lapse- the ruby progression of day into night.

At the drive-in we are young and the seats stick to our legs like hot asphalt. A series of still images trick our minds to motion, to heads cooling against car glass- the mind comprehends the unity of light through air, the ear does not hear the sound of a cord seldom struck.

Moonlight, archlight- beyond the windshield the black lake of the car hood reflects the marriage of illumination and light. Ocular reflex. The sensing of radiance, like dreams and jazz, burns the retina.

On the screen the beaches are lush and cool. The blond bends her neck like a beautiful bird, her hand contains the anemone’s sting. She looks at him with her fast eye. Her smile, sunlight through water. He is the pale insomniac of love.

In cars people are kissing in movielight, chain-smoking dreams, drinking the swift life from brown paper bags. Light falls from their faces in linear rays onto scattered popcorn. Visible light is the origin of color. We ponder the property of shadows.