By Jen McGahan
What do you do in the final hours of a perfect day
With someone you’ve known for two days but feels like ten?
You try counting the petals of flowers
He bought from the blue barn.
Earlier, I said there must be a thousand petals
And he raised an eyebrow,
Glanced away from the road, my way.
Now, to count the petals would be
To pull apart the bloom before its time.
Instead, I look it up.
One hundred and thirty seems about right.
Hidden deep among the petals
Is a green eye just opening.
Coyote eye, as green as the Blanco River
That teased us all day as he drove.
Pulling over once, we walked to the edge.
I lowered my hand into the cold water.
His tales looped and touched,
Layered in bricks, flesh, landmarks.
He fed me stories, showing off.
And I, shotgun, memorized his copper beard,
His right eye, his sunburnt cheek,
His eyes, the color of apple cider,
Roving over stretches of land he knows
Like the back of his hand, which I was memorizing,
The hands I tried to remember tonight
As the flower goblets poured their promise
Of turning inside out,