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issue 3: HEATWAVE

see you

LILLIAN SICKLER
the fireworks were dime-sized above the trees
              when we didn’t find the mountain

or we do find it, but not
              that night

it was the most
              I’d ever felt but that can’t mean I was
              in love

or it does,
              but only on Mt. Pollux

              which we didn’t reach--

at Ashley reservoir, you lean forward 

              and then back as if rocking 
              on the front end of a sailboat

you were thinking about Rose again

dead for two years already.

say all you want about physics, propose
              all your why’s and why not’s
but in every rendition 

of the story, Rose is gay. and in 
              this rendition, she dies. 
but only
              after you both come together

              underneath the crepe myrtle, breathless 
                            and scared
              as fireflies trapped in a jar

                            July heat 
              rising from your body 
              pulled 
                            by hers.

two years later, you and I are driving in circles around Mt. Pollux

              stop kidding yourself, 
                            Frankie, we’re lost


we want the mountain, even if I don’t
              say so

even if this poem isn’t about
              how we felt once we reached the top
or about the way sound fizzled in our ears
              ​like saccharine soda pop

but back to the circles and what’s inside--

              imagine for a moment this farm in Massachusetts
as I dig my hands beneath the apple
              ​seedlings to turn the compact dirt

imagine us back into our bedroom on the second floor
              heat in lazy piles
                            your open palm 

              on the back of my neck as you ask again
              what can be made
                            to feel good.

I am thinking of Rose again

before she was your lover and before you were mine
              she’s eating strawberry preserves on a slim piece of toast

she says see you in Hell and it’s a wish not
              a threat, but you don’t

see her yet

              a laugh still 
              ​exploding between us

​Lillian Sickler is a queer Chinese American poet, writer, and birth doula currently living in Knoxville, Tennessee. Her poems have been featured in Shade Journal, Crab Fat Magazine, Ghost City Press, and Hobart, among others. She has two cats, Laika and Junebug, and a garden full of white and yellow poppies. Twitter: duckona_junebug; Instagram: duckonajunebug.
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header photo: mario mesaglio (unsplash)

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