Windmills

By J.D. Isip

“What, you would rather we told people the truth?”
-World War Z

Amstelveen was hotter than
every guide book tableau
and Google image search
had led me to believe

I imagined the opposite for you
who had ambered me, twenty,
full head of hair, in a prime
that withered at the Schipol gates

For three weeks I found a way
to fade into the austere landscape
of little Dutch streets, the Dutch
habit of smiling indifferently,

your tawny boyfriend, twenty,
severe in his opinions, sincere
in recommending the windmills
“All the Americans can’t get enough of”

Every penny that flew me to you
told me to tilt toward him,
the youth we spent so cheaply,
but I staid my words

And ran to and from them the next
morning, the late summer sun
already amplifying the age
of my bones, my skin, myself

I had somehow lost halfway
across the Atlantic, hoping for
Amsterdam’s famous high
and a reclaimed piece of the past

Below the fan-like blades, sweating
and heaving for air, replaying your
final jab, I had “gotten dumpy,” –
I let the wind scream for me.