[audioplayer file=”https://admin.rattle.com/audio/BalwitBeer.mp3″]
Above it all or just apart, you watched
from the edges, a half-smile quirking
your lips, not a smirk exactly,
for you weren’t disdainful, merely
speculative, trying to figure out
what we called pleasure, the dumb
joy of the simple—a can shaken
and bubbling over, the chill of sun cream
down the back. We sensed you there
but stopped inviting you closer.
It’d been years since you’d said yes.
We let you remain our opposite,
like an afterimage on the retina, the sun
spangling the river before lazing beyond.
We sensed you wanted to follow its meander
but didn’t know how. We’d have rested easier
had you disappeared, no longer having to imagine
how we looked to one not joining in.
But you had a role to play before we,
grown resentful, finally splashed you
from the shallows or flicked a half-chewed crust
to send you home. Then we began
the earnest work of reassurance—
our castle, our towel, our girl, our footprints—
briefly clear in sand.