Autumn Sky Poetry . . . Number 9 . . .

When not reading, writing, or working, it is hard to say what Luke Evans may be doing. Keep an eye on him. He lives in Maryland with his dog who doesn't read or write anything, but actively promotes his work in The Hiss Quarterly, MindFire Renewed, Opium, Contrary, and beyond. Good dog.

What It Means to Love, Says the Caveman

     by Luke Evans

I saw her once, on a Sunday,

in a café on the boulevard past

reflections in the glass of blooming

trees and stop lights. Her hair she'd pulled

into a ponytail and she was laughing,

or sneezing, and holding

out her hand. I lost her

to a reflection of white light.

I saw her again, on a Thursday,

at a concert downtown in a hazy

club as the opening band tested

their Gibsons. I leaned over

the rail to catch

a glimpse in the strobe lights and smoked

shadows of her smooth cheeks pressed

against a shutter blinking

staccato beats like a drum beyond

the brink of pitch.

I saw her again, on a Saturday,

at a park on the river lying

beneath a willow tree on a blanket

with a book folded

in her hands and the camera spying

beside her. Kids splashed on the bank

and she peered over the pages with a smile

not at me. Somewhere a dog barked

and I tilted my head

to the sound. A collie ran free

across the grass and dove

into the water. I turned back

to where she lay, but saw only grass

flattened into pressed slivers

like a fiberglass cast. A little kid's cry

became the downshift of a semi

on the highway beyond the river.

I saw her, then, on the beach,

hugging a frightened, drenched child

tight to her breasts.

The last time I saw her, she was cresting

a knoll with a sack on her back and a wave

in the hip and the hop of her hair.

© 2008 Luke Evans