Summer
July 7, 2010
There are no words for the longings of summer
they wrap around me like the skin of a peach, freckled, fuzzy
unappealing to some, delicious to others, always eventually bitten.
No, I cannot name these longings
Rather, I shove each one toward my center, so that the desires I swallow become strange notes in my throat or midday songs or misunderstandings between friends.
I can hold my breath when I see the moon for the first time. I can pretend to be fourteen, hearing secrets from the cicadas I now know have no souls and tell no secrets. I am assuredly less superstisious than I used to be, but still a soft peach.
Liminality is the word of the day. It is a fancy way to say in-between.
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