STANLEY PACION (Chicago, Illinois USA)
He had twisted his ankle.
His foot was swollen and it ached.
It hurt to the degree that he could no longer concentrate.
He had lost the capacity to figure.
His mind no longer able to grasp even very simple things,
His eyes appeared vacant, as if in a trance.
He was young and he kissed the back of her hand,
He kissed her about the face,
He kissed her eyelids,
And he rested his lips at the base of her neck.
He had kissed the skin all-over both her shoulders.
He and she were minors, and their ardency,
Its possible consequence worried their parents.
There was no question about the boy being strong.
Within the warmth of a late August, summer night,
The couple walked hand in hand along a dirt path.
They traveled a trail along side truck-farm fields,
Alternate tracts of cabbage and corn,
Which then became a shortcut
Through an expanse of crabgrass scrub.
The land rose a few inches,
Slightly above the counter-sunk, worn-earth channel,
Suggesting they were upon beaten path,
A safe passage, perhaps an Indian trail,
Of an age older than most would dream.
They headed toward an old Dutch Elm.
The tree grew beside a muddy bank of a creek,
An ocassional flow of water with a mouth
Which emptied west into a river,
A river the early French settlers had named Des Plaines.
They thought that they might sail away upon the waters.
The Milky Way seemed to stretch out across
The vault of deep space more like some
Will-o-wisp patch of terrestrial weather
Than the starry edge of our own galaxy.
Yet more, much more than the taste of salt -
The tiny sweat above her brows, more than how
Moisture had collected and now had formed
Fetchingly to glisten upon her shoulders,
It was a night whose such awesome, absolute clarity
Enhanced a once-in-a-life-time, white light streak,
At its end a mighty, bright flash erased the sky.
Though now near midnight, all nature cast a quick shadow.
The day's heat still permeated the late summer evening.
They were standing before the great Dutch Elm,
The tree beside the muddy bank of the creek,
The ocassional flow of water with the mouth
Which emptied west into the river,
The river the early French settlers had named Des Plaines.
In a momentary all-over illumination,
The youths saw their silhouette.
They were merged as one.
They saw themselves fused into a single shade.
A low thunder followed, and, there, in the instant,
All of heavenly influence fell upon their embrace.
And when they turned and gazed upon each other,
Before either of them had spoken a word,
They had come to believe that the memory of this event
Had made for them a place in immortality.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Etta,1958 by STANLEY PACION )
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