Lee Colin Thomas

 
The deck out back kneels low in the grass.
Wood planks worn soft with rain and sun,
ten thousand human footprints.
Picture someone’s old Christmas lights
unboxed and strung up—in June!—from the gutters
to the lowest birch branch, and reaching up
to tether an ark of stars.

I meet the hostess standing barefoot in the grass.
She takes a chilled bottle of white from my hand
and replaces it with the warm palm of her brother
the graduate student, in town to write his dissertation.
Well, trying to write, he says. So far summer’s been
swimming with my nephews and niece, watching t-ball games.
And standing under trees at parties, his collar open
at the throat to catch the gold and green
dripping from the bulbs above.

He leads me to two open seats
at a table under the tree.
We pass cold tomato salad, plates
of marinated meat, and peaches
tiger-striped from the grill.

I ask about his field. Fractal geometry,
he says, Certain equations can replicate patterns
found in nature. In the fronds of ferns, for example.
Tree growth over time. A whole forest.
Maybe equation draws the pattern. Or maybe pattern
wrote the equation. One way or the other, it can tell us
the shape of what’s next.

And he’s right. Everywhere
artichoke leaves overlap. The weave of the tablecloth repeats.
The evening pleats in on itself. Gathers its dark heat
closer to our end of the table and this slow dessert:
small bowls of vanilla ice cream, with almonds glazed in honey.
When a sliver of almond sticks to my lip, the grad student
brushes it away with his thumb. Leaving my mouth to wonder
if it has been kissed or stung.