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Fruit of the Summers
Dan
16 Jul 2004
The drumline taps
along with my foot
Feeling the beat
of my heart
that echoes the memory
of that brown haired girl
with those clover-green eyes
who stole my soul
all those years ago
I question why she stays in my head
that girl who ate me out
ate that soft tender inside where I kept all my secrets
and spit them right out.
That summer, high out over the beach
The summer of the Dragonfly
which floats on air, grass, and sea,
I learned the word of hope
and smell of salt and sand.
Not of sweat, though, not of love or sex or tenderness
of which was forbidden.
I see it there, now
here
in the Summer of the Crow
where I can pull it
off the tree
before
it rots
withers
and fades.
I can drink it
soon
from cupped hands
that lose liquid down
tender necks
but caught
by eager tongues.
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