SUMMER, AND THE SYLLABLES SIMMER
which springs into frizz. Too hard on my paleskin, which sizzles and burns. But oh, those
sweet nights, glittery with fireflies’ morse-coding
love letters on the grass. The music of katydids
and cicadas, the scent of a fresh-mowed lawn.
An icy martini, olives bobbing in the waves,
each sip lessening my grip, letting me remember
happier times. I know you’re not sitting here
next to me, but I sense your closeness. Tell me
what it’s like, over there, in the world of pure light.
Tell me how to go on.
~Barbara Crooker
