8mm film, burnt orange sun, the warm summer.
She is there on the screen, young and fierce.
She smiles, and makes a playful snarl, a tiger face.
The rock high above the river, red bikini, she jumps in.
The film is silent. I can’t remember her battle cry laughter.
A splash in the washed out blue. She looks up and waves.
Her sunning herself on the rock, beach towel, little radio.
I know the song we loved was planning. It’s only a relic now.
She blows a kiss. She laughs. She poses haughty, like an angel.
The film is over. The projector spools out and goes dark.
I walk up the stairs to rejoin the waking world, to her,
A woman, a wife, who was not the young woman I was watching.