Robbin Farr: TO THE MAN WHO LISTENS FOR ECHOES

Robbin Farr
TO THE MAN WHO LISTENS FOR ECHOES

We were lake-bound on an unfamiliar road.

But stranger yet, you were unknown
to me. I to you. It was summer. It was
happenstance. It was a moment so clouded in
headiness, bright lake breezes, and wine, it
may not, after all, have much truth to it.

We didn’t meet, exactly.

We fell into a mutual avoidance; each
of us averted our glances at the last second,
lest we were discovered staring, and regained
a riveted interest in the poet addressing the
workshop on the subject of West Coast
landscapes and the landscape of a poem.

We were lake-bound on an unfamiliar road.

You were driving, and you were
cordial. I was influenced by a few glasses of
chilled California white. I acted a part and
prattled on about my life. You, to your credit,
were sober, less somber than I. But I needed
something to brighten my days too long
worn, worn out.

We didn’t meet, exactly.

You followed behind as I nearly
succumbed to the steep hills of the Sierra
Nevada foothills on the way to my cabin.
You were staying nearby with friends in what was
a ski chalet in the winter. Summers, however,
it was converted into housing for poets
attending writing workshops held in the
1960’s vintage Olympic Village in Palisades Tahoe.

We were lake-bound.

Mile markers and landmarks remain
in my memory: the sandy terrain lining the
road, the sun beginning its descent over the
mountain. It remained to be seen if that, what
then? If so, so what? Consequence follows
your delving, you know. You should have known.

We didn’t meet.

You learned you knew one of my
roommates and through what resembled a
game of whisper down the lane, I heard you
may have said something about swimming
naked in Lake Tahoe that night under a full
moon and “What could be more sensual than
meeting by moonlight under no pretensions,
but to discover each other.”

We were lake.

We were shore. Bluescape under blue
of sky, blue of mountain, sun counting itself
in rippled water copies. We sat atop a picnic
table. Viewed the lonely beach, lonely even
now before the geese and the tern, before all
those wings scissored the sunset, cut it into
coming autumn. But still there was today. Today
the words trapezed in the branches. I
was tongue-loosed by improbable
dimensions of three, maybe four. And tints
pinked on blue, on blue, on blue, swiftly there
and then not.

We didn’t meet.

By moonlight. Nor unclothed. But I
did hear your voice as you spoke to my
roommate. It was a high moon and the light
sparked the deck where you sat, a glass of
wine in your hand. I, hidden within the dark
of my bedroom, debated joining the growing
crowd. But, there were complications. Other
lives to consider. Still the moonlight
beckoned. And I considered your nearness.
Dare I draw near to, next to you? You, so
far from known? You knew.

We were lake.

Practically speaking, better the
seductive beauty of the dusk withdraw. But,
there was sundown—and after. Would you
hold my divulging close where in your world,
our worlds were artfully never near? But,
there were shoulders warmed of waning sun.
And I ingratiated myself in conversation with
you, someone I might normally desire, but
right then you were only decoy. A refuge. A
place where I might remain unaccounted for.
For a moment; for some time.

We didn’t meet.

Didn’t entwine. Did not encounter.
Allowed our separate desires to dissipate
with the day’s warmth. And as the chatter
rose to laughter and, I believe, music, I slept
and deserted the full moon and the confusion
of it all. Besides, you were Boston and I,
Philadelphia.

We were lake

I should have been swifter to meet your eyes.
Blue, of course. Like anemones, like cobalt
blue pigment on pottery. Like lake. I should
have been aware. Swifter to understand the
syntax of your speech or the nuance of the
last pour of wine.

We meet

Morning arrived too soon. The scrub jays
were already raucous, and the sun rendered
the deck golden. Poems were collected by
seven a.m. and readied for distribution at the
eight a.m. workshop. Breakfast was happenstance,
a bowl of cereal, maybe, except for this
morning and the freshly baked raspberry
scones you delivered. In person. In case my
roommates and I were hungry. In gratitude
for the previous night’s moonlit gathering. In
the event I answered the door. I did.

We were lake

The moon began as a shadow of moongloss,
silver over the mountains. The beach, finally
emptied of its scattered day trippers, was
lonely. I wanted the beach lonely, sounding
the slapping waves, sounding the balsam
notes, the amber sap, and crackling the
pinecones. A season gone and then home.

We met

You were handfeeding the jays crumbs of
scones, my startle at your presence apparent.
It was then I first noticed your eyes. How you
pinned my attention with the blue of your
stare. Blue sky, sky blue. Your breathy
greeting soft as the fiddlehead ferns curling
their fronds on the deck. “The mountains will
be magnificent tonight in the light of a still
full moon,” you told me. Though you didn’t
know the way, “One can’t miss a lake of that
size.” I suppose I nodded. I must have
nodded. He arrived late afternoon and in a
dissolve of moments, we were lakebound on
an unfamiliar road.

We are lake

Another day before the Zephyr left the station
recounting the miles across country to home.
The rails groaning the weight they carried.
But, still the remnants of summer. I leaned
into the warmth of you with my stealing heat
seemingly casual, but causal instead and
necessary.

What I don’t want to know are the details,
your responsibilities beyond this evening’s
ripplings and turnings. Yes, tonight, we shall
steal lives, invent a future, pebble-skipping
the truth.

Robbin Farr writes predominantly short forms: poetry and brief lyric nonfiction. In addition to writing, she is the editor of River Heron Review poetry journal. Robbin has been published in numerous journals including Citron Review, Corvus Review, Panoply, 2River View, Atlanta Review, and others. She is the author of two books of poetry, Become Echo (2023) and Transience (2018). She is most happy when revising and submitting. Writing terrifies her. More about Robbin at robbinfarr.com. Follow her on X: @robbinfarr.