what isn't possible in may

What is it about windblown 
that we find so enticingly romantic

The public library lawn is dense 
with bodies, reading, sprawling, naked

There is sun, once more returned
and we, creatures of the north, rejoice

A dog large enough to be a hairy horse
shakes under the sprinkler rain

Children of it-doesn't-matter-whom shriek
wild with water, with grass underfoot

I can feel each blade imprinting my belly
in the flagrant space where my shirt rumpled up

A man I have met once before appears
stepping closer into my nearsight with hello

He works for the radio I learn
and immediately all I can hear is the voice
​
As if tuning in from some other place
the children and sprinkler and wind as static



copyright 2016, Sarah Hirsch.