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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4615 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Summer Dawn Pen The wet street steams as if breathing. We sit on the swing to watch the water rise. You eat the dented apple that I dropped in the sink. It is puce and soft, bruised by ripeness and the way I let it fall. You twist the stem into your fingers. I roll a grape pit in my mouth. We knead the porch planks with our feet as if the floor would sink underneath, swell between the clefts of toes rise like bread with this heat. It is the warmest wood my feet have felt. Summer makes things smaller, winnows us away. We will rise, separate, spread like seed into the street. The swing smells like lemon rinds, strawberry juice, melons. I think of two Spanish women with brown toes and dusty sundresses, balancing baskets on their hair. |
