The Cowhouse

by Raisa Imogen

The sky impossibly

dark above us, pin-

pricks of stars like

exit lights as we

walk the field

of fireflies,

the seam between

the sky and earth

painted over in black

ink, my hand wrapped

around her hair: an

anchor to the wet

grass against my back

& the low murmur

of frogs.

We slough off

our shorts and

spill into the

pond not quite

covered by

the fronds

of grass.

You could have

seen us from

the road but

you did not,

nor did you see

the salted mud

or the sea tangle

thick as her hair,

another anchor

to the adjacent


As she turned,

I prayed

for three close-ups

that, if they should fade,

would fade slowly:

the straw hat

shading her eyes

the boots reaching

her dirt-covered knees

the purple loosestrife

oh the purple loosestrife

slick with light