Blue Moon

Blue Moon

by Jose Mari Antonio Lorenzo

 

Always the summer of ’67, always, you

would remind me of the day of my arrival and the night of booming festivities;

the lanterns hung up on wooden bamboo posts, the wired lights in their suspended

grace – going down and going up, as if wanting to be reached – and the bulbs

in their alternate glow. I was but an unfamiliar face

in a sheath dress that went a few inches down my knees,

and a bob.

 

You were there and then you were there–

 

when my hair had laid down and my dress was just a dress.

On booming nights and fights, again and again, you

would walk up to me, and tell me: this was how it played and

you saw me standing alone

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