Two Poems by Vanessa Blakeslee

Light Run

At seven in the morning I stretched awake,

tugged on sports bra, shorts, running shoes,

and stepped out into the dew and the light.

The quietest time of my life.

I walked as if I must catch the bus,

until I hit the sidewalk on the lane

which winds around Lake Maitland.

I broke into a jog, and as my heart bloomed,

so did I notice the colors in every petal and leaf—

the quietest time of my life.

How had I missed those colors until now?

The funhouse pinks, the slicker-bright yellows,

the purples deep as my grandmother’s coat.

As I broke out into a run, all the sounds

of lawnmowers and leafblowers,

the shouts and hammers and Holas of the

construction team atop the new house roof,

all, all fell away.

And I knew just me and the great trees

reaching their arms for the Florida blue sky.

I became God’s eye,

and inside, everything stilled

but for my heart belting out with life.

It was the quietest time, running in the light.

Hotel Citrus

At the Hotel Citrus,

we split a dinner over a dripping, feathered candle:

a sour salad, smoothed carrots, ulcerated beans.

Afterwards, the silky taste of vinegar on my tongue.

You wear a blue shirt, inviting as I know that

underneath awaits your gleaming stomach

that I will taste later,

Like the steely sugar of dessert

as we share again. And again.

The air surrounding us is heated by rock music.

You sign the bill with a smoky pen.

Outside we pass a homeless man wobbling

on board a crinkled bicycle.

But we call a carriage,

the tan horse illuminated by the moonlight.

We trot past the coquina walls of the fort,

Spanish moss crushes underneath our wheels.

In the distance, the gleaming bridge that Flagler built.

In St. Augustine,

I bid adieu to our life.