o—o—o

It was rumored that girls disappeared in the woods
where my girlfriends & I smoked Merits,
me morphing into flutter,
meandering skyward with the rings
we blew, cocking our mouths
into up-pouring spouts, snapping
our jaws,     o—o—o      presto,
It was magic, sort of,
how the rings appeared precise & sinuous,
undulating like John Travolta’s
hips,      then elongating,     o—o—o
those days, that summer I wanted to gather
& weave into a smoky silver cloth, a flowy gauzy dress
my mom would never let me wear,

but lounging all nicotine dizzy in the grass I could
dream of it,     o—o—o      my head
spinning somewhat slower than a record,
my head filled with Rumours,
Stevie Nicks, her gossamer look,
her voice of moth wings
& ash, blowing loneliness like a heartbeat
through me, how it felt when the boys
showed up, always with a frisbee
spinning on someone’s finger & we moved
from the sheltering trees
into a field of staggering light, those boys,
their blitheness & grit, those boys
who knew they mattered
more than songs, gossip, laughter,
those boys for whom we’d say anything, adopt any look
to get them to look at us,     o—o—o 

our lovely languid smoke rings, little mouths,
little selves leaving us, saying nothing
& everything as they kissed the world goodbye

Sara Burant is the author of a chapbook, Verge. Her poems and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in Spillway, Ruminate, Valparaiso Poetry Review and Heavy Feather Review, among others. She lives in Eugene, Oregon, where she takes long walks, takes care of other peoples’ animals and takes her time.