Spark

 

Spark

I’m delivering firewood.
You’re leaning over a triple sink, 
sleeves rolled up in a baggy sweatshirt, 
elbow-deep in soapy water scrubbing
93 soup bowls in the camp kitchen 
where washing dishes is punishment
but what could you do wrong?

Your hair is a swirl on top 
like black soft-serve ice cream 
with one lock loose over the forehead. 
Cheeks shiny. You reach overhead 
in rubber gloves for a can of Comet cleanser 
(stretching, exposing belly, unaware) 
when you see me and try to push 
the straggle of hair from your face  
leaving little bubbles among the freckles. 

You smile.
Your teeth are straighter than mine. 
You say, “Want a potato chip?” 
“I’d love one.”
Sparkle eyes, green.
We’re sixteen.

…..

First published in Verse-Virtual. Thank you editor James Lewis.

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