Remember Floating

I try to draw the floaters
in my eye, the vague circles, spirits
that appear against a bright sky as I lie
on your blanket and slide
just out of focus, God’s view
of innertubes.

Remember working summer camp?
We packed every kid into a van
and drove the tangled river bank,
inflated too many plastic tubes
with CPR-trained breath.
We taught them to hold hands but still,
one girl caught on a piece of rebar
as we passed below a city bridge
and I leapt in. Thank god she could swim.
We coughed and dragged our tattered
donuts to the ledge. You and the kids
passed by and waved, we’ll meet you at the van.

I wonder where she is now. And does she remember
our walk through the cement cliffs,
the narrow sidewalks and the whizzing cars,
or how we couldn’t find the van
for two hours, until it started raining
and I yelled, yes, yes, right there.
She had red hair.

She asked me, “do you like Miss Donne?
You’re both girls. But my dad says that’s okay.”
I asked you out after that. Never told you why.
What if it hadn’t happened? We’d just floated apart
after the summer run.

You roll towards me
on the blanket
and say darling,
don’t stare at the sun.