We were campers here when we met
rummaging together through a jumble
of tangled tent covers, hiking boots,
sleeping bags and rain gear.
In sweat-pants and a baggy t-shirt
you swept into the communal kitchen,
with a chef’s knowing command
and aligned your culinary arsenal
like a general preparing for battle.
A frontline soldier,
I cleared spaces, found implements,
awaited further instruction.
We froze alone that night
in separate sleeping bags;
each of us too shy
to cross that great nylon,
zippered divide.
Now we descend from our rented room,
immerse world-weary bodies
as a layer of tiny bubbles
laminates our skin,
outlining fuller, softer forms
with its gentle, silver caress.
We speak of retirement, travel,
books to complete, poems to be written,
as the concentric rings of winter raindrops,
expand and disappear
on the water’s
ever-changing surface.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joan Annsfire is a retired librarian who lives in Berkeley, California and writes poetry, memoir, and non-fiction. Her poetry chapbook, Distant Music was published by Headmistress Press. Her poetry has appeared most recently in Rising Phoenix Review, Older Queer Women: the Intimacy of Survival, Lambert and Einstein and 9/11: The Fall of American Democracy, Casey Lawrence, Milk and Honey, a Celebration of Jewish Lesbian Poetry, and The Other Side of the Postcard, among others as well as online and in a number of literary journals including, Counterpunch’s Poet’s Basement, Lavender Review, Sinister Wisdom, The 13th Moon, Bridges, and The Harrington Lesbian Literary Quarterly.