Jordan Escobar​

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Jamaica Pond Redux

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Tomorrow is the first day of spring

and the pond settles like a missing

vowel in the word you didn’t know

how to pronounce. Primavera.

First green. The small thumbs

of plant life spit through the soil.

How many times did we walk

this path? How many times did we

pray to leaf into unspoiled limbs?

Canada geese warble in the drifting

sun. I want to undress their knowing

into another version of us wading

into the water. Waiting for seasons

to slip past. Like pert minnows.

Like an algal mat. Green memories

in a field of wanting. The early

morning dew collecting on my brow.

When I was younger, I used to build

houses. Now I dream of building

a life. Cycles of return, the large loops

that crush oyster shells into dirt.

Fossilized skeletons under our soles,

flip-flops, running, jogging. Grackles

in treetops. What comes and comes

back? I’m somewhere. You’re some-

where. The grackles shut their eyes.

The geese venture north.

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