Remember the slow heaviness of August
the 60s, sixth grade
excessive greenery suffocating,
days stretching in our hands like
the wonder of boardwalk
taffy that never breaks, it just gets thinner
and thinner and thinner.
Remember when effort was pointless,
when summer kept us
low to the ground, sitting in the art
of doing nothing, tree filtered sunlight
moving across our freckled faces
as we spoke
quietly, like whispers might keep us
Picture us young, self-contained, still
whole. Breathing the not knowing
of life like
it was our daily bread.
Oh the trouble with looking
for things, what you find.
This impossible brokenness of
how that grief lies in wait for you,
coiled, attacks only in self
defense, no one wants
to be forgotten. Memory
is a mother.
Is all this time on our hands
keeping us safe
Maybe we need
to reopen, I’m dreaming
of a long drive to the mountains,
Aurora Poetry, Vol. 4, July 2022