By Kara Larson
Perfection must be distinct for everyone or America
would be cheerleaders and lawyers
and Gap babies.
How about three groovy chicks with freshly shaven pale legs
in a red car with the passenger window rolled down
no – cracked
And a curvy old highway
with those hallucination heat ripples
rising from the stretched pavement
even in March
And a bumpy wooded driveway
to a rusty moldy cabin with an unbelievable deck
before a smooth mirror of old growth and
mountains with a pinch of snow lingering
And margaritas feta cheese
green garlic olives hummus tomatoes
cucumbers and that good chewy bread
It was March.
And sunning and swimming
in briefs and bras and then skin and realizing
only a little later
there was an old man down the beach,
fishing. He couldn’t see the details.
And walking down the wobbly pier to toss
croutons (we ate all the good chewy bread)
to the lonely birds.
They landed in the mirror like little dried sponges.
And stopping to dance on the aged gray log
savagely: like no one was looking
and no one was and we made noise
with our bodies and laughter
that we would never make
if we knew someone was looking
or maybe now we would.
On the blue drive back up that curvy old highway
with scorched cheeks and
salty skins we rolled up that cracked window and said
that was a perfect