new poem

June 21, 2014

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This is the summer of staying up too late—much too late—
and not sleeping enough;
the summer of pizza for dinner so I don't have to wash dishes,
and popcorn and popsicles later
while I rewatch Buffy.

This is the summer of my mother growing celery on her windowsill,
and me stopping on the way to work to pick Queen Anne’s Lace and another yellow weed whose name I don’t know;
the summer of crying over the things I haven't done,
and never wanted to do;
the summer of changing all the names to protect the innocent.

This is the summer my hair looking so good, I let it grow long
and be hot and sticky, instead of cutting it off short and practical and ugly;
the summer of burning CDs and growing tired of the songs
before they're finished playing;
the summer of learning to use my new eyes.

This is the summer of re-reading the books I love,
the great ones that were written before I was born;
the summer of thunderstorms in the afternoon that come and go while I’m still at work;
the summer of arguing with my cat over when it’s time to come in for the night.

This is the summer of wondering why water tastes different when it's melted ice,
and asking and asking until I get an answer;
the summer of sitting on the steps, talking and laughing with my cousin;
the summer of dreams I don't remember.

That’s which summer this one is. I know, because I've been practicing all spring.