Cam at Seventeen


by Kelly R. Samuels


It is here and this.                                                And there and that.

Small as an upturned leaf.


What way? Those points of the compass nonsense

and the sun only somewhat telling.


You will scold and all will still                               be a blur.


Every fifth or sixth word heard:






She lay down beside me and spoke of

a bird’s nest and mountains                                while you turned 


pages with your beautiful hands elsewhere –                 in that room 

I now sometimes enter, feeling soothed.


This trailing of my hands in the water.                 God in the stern.

                                                                             And you holding

                                                                             a book, its covers

                                                                             like plovers' eggs.

The egg I will peel shortly, fashioning

an escapade. A wild chase.             The leap


onto what is now clearly stone.