Ganymede By Zane Yinger
The boy would come each day,
and each day he would sit beside me.
His fingers skittered over rocks and combed through
sand like blue crawdads. His eyes glittered.
He crouched as a frog might; his morning sun smile framed by the gold hills of his knees.
Curious glittering eyes gazing over me.
Soaking in my flowing curves and lazy bends.
Sometimes skipping his fingers on my skin.
He watched me like no one had before.
So I danced for him. Just the two of us.
My slow rhythm. Pulling him down and drowning out the cruel world.
He was a shell and I a river.
I held him in my movement.
He would cry for me. And I would listen.
He tossed his tears as round stones. Watched them sink. Through
misty eyes, into my depth.
His strong face spilled strong emotion.
He cried for small things: mean friends, scraped elbows, and broken glass.
He cried too for heavy hands, lost people, pride and disappointment.
From his pitcher he poured water
and happily, I drank.
In his eyes that cut water like sunbeams. His rare and silent laughter
rippling across my surface as solar treasure falls on rocky sand.
His daybreak-fog voice and his warm skin
and his strangely sure hands. I felt him.
And I felt the joy it brought me to know I was seen. Truly.
By the first to look through himself. By this gentle creature
who grew to understand me. Who knew me with wide
eyes. Who fed me tears for dance.
who taught me love.