Call of the Loons

His coated words of love are honey sweet.
He brings me to the cottage on the lake,
not the first time. Now his parents are home.
A sticky kiss from Mom, bear hugs from Dad.
Campfires nearby breathe smoke among the pines.

A loon’s haunted cry hangs over dark water.

His mom escorts me to the cramped guest room.
Her son sleeps on the lakefront screened-in porch.
All night the loons call for mates, he whispers,
casts a knowing wink, waggles his eyebrows.
He pulls me close, asks me to come listen.

A loon’s haunted cry hangs over dark water.

In the morning, clouds hold distant thunder.
Mom cooks breakfast, clots of egg, deer sausage.
The gray sky rolls, and my stomach rumbles.
Lightning flashes as I stare at my plate,
count on my fingers—nearly six weeks late.
A droning outboard speeds to race the storm.

A loon’s haunted cry hangs over dark water.

Futile Sun Block

After we kissed
under the street lamp,
I ran blind into darkness
from what I wanted.

Still, next time,
we held hands in a dim bistro
where I drank a brimming glass
of light from your eyes.

***

Christine Jackson teaches literature and creative writing at a South Florida university. Her poetry has been published in many online publications, including The Literary Yard, The Ekphrastic Review, and Verse-Virtual. Chris lives with her husband in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.  Learn more about her here.