Susan Smith Nash
A seagull, swooping down
from tide-driven sky,
dragging a scrap of infinity with him –
We settled on a small picnic gazebo
shadowed by an amusement park;
rusted seesaws drowned by weeds,
and paint the color of clouds
peeling off the surface.
Alexei buckled himself in with two-year Polina
for rickety thrills on “Blue Mountain”
a series of seven tightly-bolted cars
clattering in dizzingly slow
ups and downs
the eyes of Russian grandmothers
already knowledgeable about such things,
their sons understanding only
the steep, fast descent.
And later, looking out into the bay –
Polina, Marina, and I
drank sticky, sweet plum juice
while watching the occasional swimmer
swoop down to water
like the seagulls,
and I turned around
not wanting to see
just in case he didn’t make his way
back up.