Dan Nygard
I made out with Jen Harper the best I could,
stolen whiskey, cigarettes on our lips.
She was a year older, a Sophomore; when she removed
her glasses (her face soft and cool
in the darkness,) my ribs ached,
a hurt outside of any love or prayer;
down the shore from the cabins,
hidden behind trees, we smelled their bonfire,
heard our elders, who were howling, drunk,
calling us, laughing our names across the water
into the air, and we made out as turning against,
two children made primal (by them! by them!)
like it was something we invented
in the fading smoke before dawn, ground imprinted in our hands,
waves hushing against driftwood
and tiny, white shells, but not to bring them back.
–
Dan Nygard’s poems have appeared in Read This, Main Channel Voices, and Love Child. Also, his photograph “Bonanzaville, U.S.A.” has appeared in this magazine.