Lookout


Blonde hair mussed (like some woman's fingers
had been busy), with sunrise-blue eyes,
he joined us in our Montreat quest
to break bread and find God--or lose him.
He didn't resemble an Ivy League chaplain
in his running shoes and shorts, so
prettier co-eds trolled, eyelashes batting,
hips swiveling, in hopes of a bite.

Unaware of my own sensuality, I dragged him
through deep water with Nietzsche, left him 
drowning in Soljenitsin before the next speaker.
But he chose me to kiss when we climbed
Mt Lookout that night, wrote me a poem,
held my heart in his hands for the next 48 hours
before dropping it.

My two cousins' ashes were scattered
on Lookout last fall. The three of us
climbed to the peak as teens every summer.
Sometimes I imagine those ashes slowly swirling
around a memory imprint of the quaking girl
I still was until Lancelot leaned down to kiss me.





Pris Campbell
©2010

Art: Spring Aspens by Warren Gossett
Click on his name to visit more of his wonderful art.

Copyrighted and used with permission

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