2 minute read
Jenny / Declan Langton
Jenny
Declan Langton
Advertisement
When I think of her, Jenny
she’s not sure of the time.
Out by the watering hole we call a lake,
Jenny sunbathes until her skin turns red.
In a golden bathing suit she dips
her feet into the water, never above the ankles,
skin glistens — not a hair in sight.
All out of place.
When I look at Jenny, I focus on her blonde hair.
I think of when she was sixteen and I, fifteen.
When I look at Jenny, I get so nervous.
If anything touched that blonde hair
it wouldn’t be me.
At sixteen Jenny likes to run.
At fifteen, I have a broken hand.
We lay together in the sun.
At the lake, I keep my hand in a rubber glove,
fastened with electrical tape like a cast to my arm. It’s of its own creation.
Jenny watches me swim. Diving into the weeds the glove holds tight to my hand.
I feel temperature but not space. There are few fish here.
Back on the shore the sun will set but I won’t return.
Jenny calls from the shore.
Wearing my sweatshirt, she’s the last on the beach.
Holding herself in a loving caress, I think,
It wouldn’t be me.
