Cenote of Summer

Jimmy's love for Elaine was
as deep as the quarry
where he and Wayne skinny-dipped
in the sticky Ohio summers.

My cousin Wayne:
Elaine's big brother,
athlete, searing mind,
college-bound scion
of the Pooles.

His best friend Jimmy:
shop mechanic –
so good with his hands –
should keep his damned hands off,
said Uncle Warren.

Elaine was Elaine:
summer's goddess,
adorable and adoring,
the latent and blooming image
of her dead mother.

And in the quarry,
the water waited:
frigid, translucent green.
Jimmy and Wayne swam
nude in basalt and granite,
playful as otters, immortal
as gods. When time put an end
to time, the water reached
its fingers into Wayne's
taut muscles, played
cats-cradle with nerves.
Wayne's unheard scream
bubbled up to Jimmy,
floating on the surface
of everything, floating in the ocean
of Elaine's love. Meanwhile
Wayne sank, let the quarry
caress his lungs, massage
his heart to stillness.

But this is not a poem
about Elaine and Jimmy
or even about Wayne.
Rather, it is about drowning
and love – drowning in love –
how the persuasive, invasive
fingers of desire twist
muscle and nerve until
silent screams bubble
from helpless lips, until
we sink in translucent surrender
in the cenote of summer.