One
by Andy Stallings


I remember a face that I drank like water.
The hot afternoon sky seemed,
at the edges, painted ?

dripping white, hot and crushing
over the pines. Resin spread a net
over the clearing where
we searched for magnetite.

Everywhere, sap slid
imprisoning insects I wouldn’t
even call surprised.

Gramma fixed a drink and one for later, fed us
butter crackers. There were too many fish in that
creek. When I closed my eyes they were all I could
see, slick shadowy torsos rotating, bumping,
rotating ?
It was very quiet.