George Hammons 


I guess that a desire to 
not understand every damn word 
is part of the attraction.
The way that the pale or dark of a continent can 
shape someone’s beliefs, 
imparting new definitions for appetites or expectations.
Becoming fuel or maybe just locomotion 
infused by mango, or truffle, marinara, or capsaicin. 
Jet lagged and tumbling into sunshine or shadow
a day ahead (or behind) some imaginary line, where
like a gape mouthed time-traveler
one must decipher foreign tongues,
with an explorer’s curiosity,   
nosey about how to properly understand
Mon chéri,
Jagi, Libeling,
Habibati, or Tesoro.

The morning has become just hot enough
to say, let’s call it an afternoon
She is on one knee
genuflecting sort of
amidst the flower garden
She wore a white sundress
that buttons up the front
and I am intrigued 
by every flash 
of naughtiness
(even after all of these years)
I think that the sun does her justice
as few can boast
She shines like metal
but that’s not nearly kind enough a description
though I am hard-pressed to find a better one,
like bronze, or the color of a deer’s eye
She comes towards me, hands filled with lavender
and laughs, squinting under her ballcap,
at my backlit silhouette 
she asks, “What are you lookin’ so sneaky about?”

George Hammons studied creative writing, with a focus on poetry, at California State University, San Bernardino. He is the author of the chapbook, Hungry To Bed from Arroyo Seco Press and Witness: Selected Poems from Picture Show Press.


All rights © George Hammons