Logan Ryan Smith


The wind pushed too hard that night, and your hair went mad and a mess.
Goosebumps formed on your skin, on the insides of your thin thighs,
where I kissed you, on your calves, your ribs just below your breasts,
where I held you. But, you didnít ask me to stop. You, naked there in
the middle of a grass field, the rectangle buildings of McKinely
elementary -- a school of your kid brotherís past, not yours -- glowed
in the distance against orange security lights, and a playground of
twisted metal and dreaming swings silhouetting loss. A wall of tall
pines swayed, held hands, sighed in jealousy twenty yards behind us as
a bright harvest moon played God against the horizon. My lips, tongue
against your moistness, moving with your breath, your pulse, the
occasional shiver.

We were in love then, believe it or not. Hours, months, years poured
into each otherís hands, not understanding gravity, the inevitable
spread of fingers tired from a strange new exercise.

Such a beautiful air was that cold wind -- blues and greens moving
gently against our closed lids, closed in love and passion -- closed in
the bliss of not knowing how to forget or why.

You and I, eighteen, in the middle of nothing, on a square of green,
discovering purpose for the first time.

Close your eyes again now, love. That was it.

Date of Birth: September 16th, 1977
Location: San Francisco, California
Email: small_song@yahoo.com
Publications: 2River View, Words on a Wire, The Rose & Thorn, Over the Transom, etc.
Editor of: Small Town

Current | Previous    Submit | Editors    Join | Donate    Links | Contact

Sundress Publications