by Lightsey Darst
Uphill, in woods, three girls
are trying to love someone for the first time.
Far enough now for an objective look: you
liar. But I remember that great gesture
I dreamed you made for me. Love
doesn’t come naturally. Lichen makes a face,
a thousand Errol Flynns, on the side of a spindly oak.
We could have been wrong: I don’t mean we should go back
to love, but that we never had love, only fashion:
we kissed in a bar because it was done.
Time to break up with imaginary boyfriends. Break
a willow switch and slap standing water. From far away,
we saw three girls crowning a hill
we’d decided not to mount.
