On my mother's porch there are more stars than anywhere I've ever been and when I was young I skipped school and swam in pristine lakes and held onto ropes out of trees flying and dropping into the water, my head full of starry night, naked in the black water of the lake past curfew falling deeply spinning under roaring water filled ears, and no one sees us here and if we are caught I will curl up in the back seat of the police car with your sweatshirt soaking up the water from my hair.
I feel every feather of tiny waves up my back and the invisible spaces around my legs, touching rings of water, angel wings appear from peeking white shoulders and flapping skinny arms, my sharp knees kicking waterfalls of sandy inky liquid melting and I believe in that holy instant that we are water snakes and silent diving Pollywogs. Fish listen to young whispers of important promises of unconditional devotion. We have no idea we are liars. We are lilies floating on an oil spill of future sunshine, fragrant falling petals, inhabitants of dreams weaving into minds of sleeping babies.
About the author:
Sarah Montague is a native Californian. She currently lives in New York. Her new book "You Can Be Anything From A to Z" is on sale now at big fancy bookstores. She tends to complain more when things are going really well. You can also visit Sarah anytime on the world wide internet web at www.sarahmontague.com.