Platte River Swim

Ben Quick

Sweating rye and barley
under the choke of stars
on a Midwestern prairie
you gather,
in a soft tangle,
shocks of thick blond hair
and follow me quietly
across dark planks.
The air falls heavy and still
on the shallow black braids
of curving river, settles like flesh
in steaming thickets of willow
where fireflies blink and hover.
As we tumble
down groaning steps
to warm sand,
I say something cruel,
because that is how things are.
You shrug, pull your arms
through the sleeves of your summer dress,
and slip into the gentle current, bobbing off
in the dead of night.

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