By Jenna Goldsmith 

You’re getting married
and I’m thinking

of the water tower,
tip of Broad Street,

grass sheaths stuck
under terry cloth spun

open and draped
sidelong over

thighs. I’m messed
up on the details.

Was there
a pool in Annette’s backyard?

Were you wet
headed? For sure backs

sloped the gentle grade
to the water tower,

or was the ground
flat but for

divots boned
by skidding kneecaps,

zippered creases open
to hold curved

theres and

necks bent up
to the tower’s

enormous bulb.
It was must have

been night, muggy,
your friends outlined

shapes standing aghast over
us and this

wasn’t even the last time.
I wish I remembered

the jeans I wore, if my
hair yet cut

short, clean
or dirty, had I given

it up, was it the you and I
before or after

the movie theater?
All scenes your

abominable memory
reasonably released

but I know you remember
the tower.
I saw it.

On some level,
on some plane of

a near reality,
we’re at the water tower,

bodies arched bridges
but to ourselves

who are still us
who are still us

Jenna Goldsmith is a poet and Lecturer in English at Rockford University. Her poetry chapbook, CRUSH, was the winner of the 2022 Baltic Writing Residency chapbook contest. She resides in Rockford, IL and online at