June, July: Looking for Luck
Until September I am young, I’ll have to act my age once the Summer is done.
In the early mornings I dig myself into the dirt and talk to the birds. They chirp or sing or coo. Laying still, I encourage them to gnaw at my flesh. But they are Robins, not Vultures, and seldom do as they are told. Stubborn like a grass stain, my knees bloom another bruise. Until September I am young, I’ll have to act my age once the Summer is done. I am looking for luck; collecting pennies, picking petals, hanging horseshoes. I try to be good, flutter my lashes when she meets my eye. We were between the church and the schoolyard, I was taking long drags from my own vigil light. She liked the sight of her hand on my thigh as we settled into the wooden pews. I try to be good, releasing bugs out the window. I try to be good, walking on tiptoes. We got chased out of our slumber, tried to beat the truck pulling in. I sweat through sheets, write through heavy eyelids. June 5, 2025: I dreamt of a bathtub overflowing. It was a mess that I didn’t know how to clean but at least the water was warm at my feet. I try to be good, emptying my hair from the drain. In the home stretch, we loose track. Postcards sit in my desk, unstamped. I try to be good, I call and leave a message. I try to be good, I check the expiration dates in my grandfather’s fridge. It is July and the days are spent finding the nerve. I bit off more than I could chew, she threw out the clutter from her childhood bedroom. I try to be good, straightening my spine. I try to be good, even if it becomes a waste of my time.
love. so beautiful
wow