Ann Neuser Lederer
Thunder Moon

How I loved to ride
on the back of your motorbike,
when you were a wiry twenty,
I lied,
my purple skirt lifting, falling,
like a shook blanket,
through a blur of fields
wild with chicory
and blue thistle.
You paused.
I was again accused
of making things up, when
the event's impossibility
became plainly evident.
Well then, I said, what about
that cantaloupe we shared,
still warm
on its knife tip?
What of the slap, slap,
the cutting
through of flesh to rind,
the wet seeds scooped
into puddles in the dust,
then silence?