"Summer Fling"
We sip vodka Gibsons on the lawn.
She talks about life insurance
as I watch two butterflies fucking
under the upturned kiddie pool.
As a boy, I’d find them on the lawn,
their wings frayed like old manuscripts.
I’d pin them to boards; it felt like
a noble stand against death.
Drink up, she slurs, the summer
goes sour quicker than you think.
I find it hard to be concerned.
I imagine my tan as film developing
and focus on her eyeballs:
Pale and bulged as pickled onions.
© 2005 Graeme Mullen
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