Women At The Russian River
“Sorta cigar shaped, ” she urged.
by Richard Bunch
“Go get the ball, Orbis, ” said another.
“A twelve year old kid, imagine that, he got religion and melanoma.”
The Irish Setter emerged with a green tennis ball
and shook his fur.
“Are the knower and the known one? ” she asked,
directing her sunglasses into the shades.
Little Jonathan mopped his curls and asked
over and over “Are you happy, Mom? ”
Joni adjusted her halter. A speck greened across the sky;
Orbis leaped the waves.
“You know she died for love, honey.”
With her body still browning, Joni continued to glean
from that novel yellowing
shapes of her sounding yen.