Bon Echo, Mark S. Kenna

the moon, full, swollen in the sky,
Me drunk, on dad’s vodka gimlets
(Malibu, vodka and lime grenadine)

two a.m. and 40 degrees,
The provincial park trees swayed
with each Great Northern Wind

the bright idea to go out on the lake,
and see the moon, full, gigantic in contrast
to the roasted malt sky

my father makes the drinks be for we go,
we shushed and joked with each other
tromping past each campsite

Some glowing lanterns of blue, gray, and maroon,
with late night campers tending dying fires
other sites, dormant and snuffed out

Richard's anticipation overruled the volume of his voice,
but once we reached the lake and gazed
into the roasted malt sky – there was an awe

until we heard voices behind us
he whispered to me, “where from?”
I smell vodka on his breath, “Eastern Block”

three figures hanging off each other
speaking the Cyrillic alphabet
my dad takes a sip of his solo cup and

asks the question in our drinks
“Y’all from Russia?”
the figures stop and stare

like curious cats with their heads on an axis,
one slips off her shorts and the others follow
my dad, his tongue in his throat

The figures clothes watch from the shoreline,
we sip our vodka gimlets and stare
at the naked moons that bob in the water

He whispers in my ear
“If I was 18 years years old…”
as he elbows me, sloshing my drink

one figure pops her head from
the coffee black lake –
“We’re Polish,” I shiver and drink