JILL FALLS FOR JACK
Really, we fell from bramble-scrawled oak trees,
became snow angels without snow. Instead
we made wings from the swept scars of lawn grass.
After the mower blade cut, we tucked
green shards between armpits, against elbows.
It was still summer still, but hardly, and we took turns
jumping off limbs to let the wind escape us, again
and again. On purpose we fell. Our throats scratched
as we gasped for air, first him, then me. And then he
reached over, put his lips on mine and blew breath,
mouth to mouth, as if I suffered from drowning,
as if my lungs were pails of water instead of dry,
hollow. Until I breathed in, and the wind again
made me feel like tumbling, like tumbling after.
fiction poetry "fact" photography