C C Russell

Translation of the Deck in a Certain Spring Sunlight

The way that air is defined, described as it is by words
(and only words).  I say that I still see you
this way—your hair, your waist in those too-high jeans.
It was a long time ago. It was a long time.

There was a susurrus of sunlight, the sort
that lingers on us. Film sunlight (and by this, I mean a false
sort of sunlight, though in this particular case absolutely real. I swear.)
The sort of sunlight that falls
like a misting rain.

I say that I still see you
and so I do, in this moment. You are leaning
forward onto the railing, a beer resting
in your long fingers. They hold that bottle
in the way that they held everything then—loosely.

Let me start again, let me rephrase
this sunlight. You were there. You were alone
on the deck, so goddamned beautiful
in that aloneness. The sun cradled you, the sun assaulted you.

You were covered in it, you were smothered by it.

You were so bright that day.

All of the world dulled
around you.

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C C Russell lives in Wyoming after trying out Ohio and New York for a bit. He has been published in a variety of places online and in print such as The Best Microfiction series, Colorado Review and Split Lip Magazine, among others. More of his work can be found at ccrussell.net.