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?