A generous crumb from your
red velvet cake fell into my
love potion. I’m in my Prius,
following you down this long,
winding dirt road; you’re a
quarter mile up in your pick-
up truck leaving a wake of
dust that cloaks and then
clobbers all of my bright
ideas. When we finally
get to the Dairy Queen,
we order banana splits.
They’re separate orders,
have to be, like we could
split our splits: I crumble
cookies into crumbs to
cover mine. On yours
you dispense a neat line
of mustard. I lay my arm
on top of yours just to
show us off to the world,
our bond, our differences,
my pink pearl bracelet
forms a cross with yours,
a beach bum vintage
macrame slung with
several slick faux
turquoise chunks.
Then they get twisted
and knotted together
somehow, we’re no
longer at the DQ,
but have been riding
horseback through a
vast open meadow,
our horses both resting
now, their reigns
slithering like snakes
upon the flayed grass
below their heads.
With a little jerk, I
finally break us free,
watch a smooth pink
pearl go flying over
our picnic basket and
land somewhere at
the bank of the lake
that is our lunchbreak
vista. The horses
neigh at each other,
almost giggle, but
neither of us notice
the horses or the pearl,
really. We’ve become
tight parallel universes
whose melded contours the
cool breeze gets to
know, but momentarily.
