by Sarah Kinebanian
He drove back west from Salzburg on the motorway
and unexpectedly encountered himself
fifty years younger
going the other way.
This was the Chiemsee, unspectacular
flat water and on the other side
low wooded banks,
but this was where the old road ran,
he knew it, yes, for sure.
That moment, then,
eight friends in a Land Rover,
and singing Die Forelle over and over again,
missing the words sometimes,
never the tune, the harmonies.
They were close in a good time,
their destination Istanbul and further east,
He understood it better now,
how they had wandered in and out of each other’s lives:
In fifty years where had they gone
or where had he gone himself?
The Chiemsee lapped its waters,
presented and then loosened strings of connection,
making no comment.