CW: brief, non-graphic mention of suicide
but sometimes i’m still in the summer
when you burned your hand on a sparkler
so we drove a half hour for burn spray
and the overhead lights in the supermarket
made me squint like the sun
and that was the summer a man shot himself
in the parking lot of my work and the day was bright and hot
and everyone walked on tiptoes and talked quiet
and everyone stared down at their feet when we left for our homes
i’m in that summer when we rode our bikes to the bay
on your best friend’s birthday and howled at the moon
and it was the summer we undressed each other
in the backyard of our apartment building
and had water balloon fights
running screaming through the neighborhood
with our weapons wet in our hands
and i grew pink daisies on the porch
that summer i crawled into cornfields at midnight
and wore the stars on my cheeks
wine heavy in my belly but i still swallowed
every sunset sitting on the front steps
and i melted across our kitchen floor
and flies got in through holes in the screen door
so i killed them with the palms of my hands
and that summer i looked in the mirror and saw myself
for the first time wide-eyed and hair wild
like the stray cats that slept on the hood of my car.
every afternoon i stretched out naked in the sun
and pressed my lips to the linoleum
and asked for that summer to keep stretching
like my arms tan and tattooed over my head
so sometimes i wake up sweating
my heart still clenched in the heat of its fist.
when you burned your hand on a sparkler
so we drove a half hour for burn spray
and the overhead lights in the supermarket
made me squint like the sun
and that was the summer a man shot himself
in the parking lot of my work and the day was bright and hot
and everyone walked on tiptoes and talked quiet
and everyone stared down at their feet when we left for our homes
i’m in that summer when we rode our bikes to the bay
on your best friend’s birthday and howled at the moon
and it was the summer we undressed each other
in the backyard of our apartment building
and had water balloon fights
running screaming through the neighborhood
with our weapons wet in our hands
and i grew pink daisies on the porch
that summer i crawled into cornfields at midnight
and wore the stars on my cheeks
wine heavy in my belly but i still swallowed
every sunset sitting on the front steps
and i melted across our kitchen floor
and flies got in through holes in the screen door
so i killed them with the palms of my hands
and that summer i looked in the mirror and saw myself
for the first time wide-eyed and hair wild
like the stray cats that slept on the hood of my car.
every afternoon i stretched out naked in the sun
and pressed my lips to the linoleum
and asked for that summer to keep stretching
like my arms tan and tattooed over my head
so sometimes i wake up sweating
my heart still clenched in the heat of its fist.
Katy Haas is a poet and collage artist from mid-Michigan. Recent works have appeared in Taco Bell Quarterly, Bracken, Variety Pack, and Afternoon Visitor. Find her on Twitter (@katyydidnt) or Instagram (@mouthshroom).