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
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.