Love on a Rainbow

I know, nearly as fact
that Indians rode past
the large rocks in this stream
where I played as a child.
The rocks are twenty feet
below my feet now.

Right here in this glade
this same darkened sky
was once rainbowed,
and echoed with the exuberance
of honking geese
as mountain lions crept
under trees littered
with skittering birds.
I can almost see the cautious
deer, their soft brown eyes
and twitching ears, startled,
as I run my hands over the oil
soaked pavement and suck in
the fragrance of parking lot exhaust.
I caught small, shiny, fleeting fish
with eight year old hands here;
fast, slippery fish
that almost always got away.

You still cry about the abortion
and the would-be
eight year old not here to chase
the shiny, fleeting glimpse
of plastic bags blowing
between the honking, smoking cars.
Come now dear, dry your eyes.
Come lie with me naked in love
on this oil slick in the hot rain.
Let us reverse that awful decision.
The deer and the birds are not
nervous now, and look, there are
rainbows in the oily streams.

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