Poetry by Andréa Ferrell Gannon
I caught four metros to get to your white sand,
planted my ass, waited patient as moonlight,
faced the sea, an ear cocked to catch the glassy
splinter of your approach. You asked, Why’d you come?
I asked, Why’d you, motherfucker? Words nudged us
to the center of a Venn diagram, ten
shy fingers rake fine Zen circles in the grain.
One day, we’d look back and laugh, but then it was like
sitting in the front of class still, millions of eyes
pricking our skin, scalping us and burning. You
lit a blunt. The smoke snaked to heaven and vine,
a shared halo. I carefully aligned my
lips to the press and form of yours. I showed up for you and
I could show you things like how I knew to blow
smoke from my nostrils—cool glide on the outside—
to make you laugh and reach for me. More. I knew
things, baby, like how moonlight was my gloss and
shadow; my high hope it turned cotton sequin,
split ends to beads; I hoped you’d hear their music
calling through falling moon haze and
you’d answer.
Andréa Ferrell Gannon, MFA, is a native Californian and the daughter of an English immigrant and a Lakota. She taught French and Spanish for many years, then English to adolescent refugees and immigrants. Find her now or soon in The Washington Post, The Coachella Review, GRXL, Kelp Journal, Cricket, and Poet Lore.