The Reach

Abstract

The Reach Tom Daley (bio) Naked in the heat of a cornfield we shiver, shin-deep in the cow pond's edge. Beyond our feet, watercresses breathe a haze that slides out of our hands. [End Page 121] Back then we would pretend only to talk while soapy lather slithered down our backs. We stand groin to groin now, no fumbling back to bashful washcloth. Time we tried this field we mined with fledgling itch. We work new talk through sidelong looks that set our teeth on edge. Your shoulders flex. My wrists and hands whittle a twitch. Come faster, breath. Let sweat knit above our lips. Now breathe. Will to make a thing we can't take back. Time commands we summon touch to hand. All through my skin my body fields magnetic needlings. We coax and edge collision with our piss-warm talk. You stammer in the shallows. "Oh, let them talk . . ." I pitch into the cow pond, praying breath will catch, will clear the water. Green-edged waves swamp pond scum. Behind my back, you dive too. The pond rimples like a force field. We're toe to toe. Small wakes break under hands. You kink a smile. "Give me your hand." "For what?" I laugh. "So someday you can talk about the time I took you by a muddy field?" Wire twilight frays. Breath shadows breath. I swim around you. You reach to touch my back. I stand and stumble to the water's edge. Your legs scissor the water. Edgy as a minnow, you stall on whirlpool hands. You arch, then drop your eyebrows. Back to back, dusk stirs, then suffocates our talk. [End Page 122] Pond stain fogs us like cold breath. You wriggle from the water. At the field's mucked edge, we dress. We bluff more talk, muffle our hands. Stretching our breath, we turn our backs. Darkness ducks the field. Tom Daley Tom Daley is a machinist. His poetry has appeared in Perihelion, Cyber-Oasis, Pemmican, and Yemassee. Copyright © 2004 the University of Nebraska Press