JUNE GLOOM IMPRESSIONISM
You realize you can
capture the essence
of your memories
but not the details—
all disconnected
stipples of
compliments and complaints
hallway talk
like stacks of wheat like aging
façades
catching some small golden sheen
before the nearing dark
curves closed.
Today
it was the smell
of the wet concrete on your way to the bus.
You don’t try
to understand why
you remember
what you do.
Say you begin
the comparison
of everything
you’ve left with
the torturous haze
clinging to the roads,
the city’s grey
emptiness.
You remind yourself
not to think
Is this my life?
and do anyway. Yes,
yes this is your life.
Time here moves
like a painting’s
light, not quite
still, but nearly.
VACATION LOG
11
I arrive in solitude a suspended
pre-dawn You kiss me or
I kiss you or we both do
10
We scramble up the woody hill
knees embedded with light
brown pine needles
and get to the top fizzy
beers the lake
through the trees
glimmering
9
In preparation for the party
our friends practice songs
on warped guitars nearly
getting the lyrics
while I run in whiffle ball squares
across the street with others
interrupted chords blips
of laughter home run
8
I watch you tune your motorcycle
stopping and starting like a teen
heart while I write this down
7
We wake early
fuck quietly smile
as the neighbor’s dog
talks to the green
morning on our bare thighs
6
We drive the whole way with the top down
the memory of our first kiss
sits beside me as we round past
the storefronts on 95
more movie scene than a routine
trip to your family’s
5
I touch my cheek the stars
visible to your stubble
You squint
at me then smile
4
At a rooftop bar in our favorite part of town
the night too early to be defeated
you try to tell me I’m strong
but all I hear is the part about my dying dad
and I become wobbly
from all the rum all your love
3
We walk as we do
There are muddy banks
of snow slung low along the roads
the lilacs are blooming and we’re thirsty
from all these miles of May
2
I watch two men kiss win a game
your arm around my waist
gin martinis and lines When will we stop
being young like this the bass calls up
from the basement
1
In the morning one person asleep
on the front lawn
my flight in too few hours
Alana Folsom recently graduated with an MFA in poetry from Oregon State, where she founded and was the Editor-in-Chief of their literary magazine, 45th Parallel. Her poetry has been published in The Journal, Hobart, and Apogee, and others. Find her @axfolsom.