The Maynard
Fall 2017

Dominique Bernier-Cormier


Standing in the middle of the glow-
in-the-dark mini-golf, I forgot the word
for pamplemousse. I watched it roll away from me
like the little glowing ball and vanish
into a miniature windmill. Your teeth moved
like a crescent moon above the pink Eiffel Tower
of the 12th hole. You kneeled and picked the ball
like an engineered berry. You gave it back to me
and I scored us with new birds: +7: cardinal,
+9: cuckoo. When we handed back our clubs,
the bored teen told us: we all store light constantly
then we come here to West-Coast Mini-Putt and slowly leak
it out. That’s how phosphorescence works. I don’t know
if she was obligated to say that to every golfer
but when we walked out, sunlight hit me
like a memorized verse.