BY LAURINDA LIND
The first day we drove down to Syracuse
to put an hour between us and everyone
else and talk about what the hell was
happening. Walked in a park, pulled
out the reasons we shouldn’t and it
was something you said, there was
a tree behind you, it was spring and
in the branches I saw all there was
to see, seconds only before it faded.
We stood on a sidewalk and looked
at each other; stepped in. A car full
of college kids took the corner too fast
and they yelled out the window, get
a hotel, and we saw it would be worse
back home where we were a scandal
yet to spring. But we had been away
in ourselves where some psychotic
sayer was saying it could be worth it.
Laurinda Lind lives within swimming distance of Lake Ontario (assuming a slog through connecting swamps and creeks). Some poetry publications/ acceptances have been in Chautauqua, Comstock Review, The Cortland Review, Main Street Rag, Off the Coast, and Paterson Literary Review.