posts tagged "summer"

Popsicle Nostalgia

Remember those Spider-Man popsicles with the gumballs?
I wish I had one of your face so
I could chew your eyes out.

But then again, you’d be one of those cheap Fla-Vor-Ice freezer pops
in a pack of 75 sold in bulk at Sam’s Club.
They used to hand them out to us on Field Day
at Liberty Elementary School half-frozen, half-sticky sweet
liquid that choked the back of your throat
and it always rained at the end of the day.

We ate Gushers by the cyan colored pool sides
and kissed toads who turned into boys
who weren’t very good at kissing back.

I thought I could chew you into something soft
and blow you away.
But you weren’t easily impressed.

Summer’s sunblock left us cold.

You went swimming in your shorts
I went swimming in my bra
and then we went swimming in nothing at all.

But remember Fruit by the Foot shoved into our mouths
whole?
Sparklers looked like your eyes I wanted to kiss
and burn my lips.

I’ll tie myself to a bottle rocket—
say I made it to the moon and left you in a gumball machine
—only twenty-five cents.

Lucy in the Sky with Cubic Zirconia

            Drench my skin in summer greens and blues cover me in red-shaded hues of sunsets I painted in art class in senior year. You sat behind me. “Will you paint one, too?” I asked you and him and her and hoped you’d find the colors in my voice. My blood type’s polychromatic kaleidoscopic. 

            I’m sick of these dead leaves I find in your hair. Which season was it when we stole our neighbor’s pears? (We never snuck enough to miss, just a few for me and you). In the autumn we swung from their branches. We were thieves of the trees. I want to wear the summer breeze like a Snuggie.  I want to cuddle in the sunshine—I’ll hold your hand but I’m fine with the sun’s hand too. My palm feels warmer. 

            Spin me like a top and toss me to the fireflies. I want to taste the auburn ignition of the 1987 Porche 944 and the rainbow sprinkles in the backseat. Yellow on my tongue like lemonade. Let me mix the sugar and the water and let me drink it if it’s sour or if it’s sweet. Wonka Taffy or Warheads. I walk like an airplane down these streets. Was that you who walked with me? Was that you who laughed at my eyes? Was that you who laughed in my face when I sang a tune? Why isn’t it you who makes me smile? 

            When the streetlights come on I want you to smile in the stars but there’s something wrong with your mouth. It’s always turned down. It’s always turned down at me. There’s something wrong with your sparkle. Then again you never did sparklers with me on the Fourth of July. Where will you be this Fourth of July? You can go to South America, but you can’t go somewhere with different stars. 

            When did I let you strip me of my leaves? When did I let you see my bones without letting you feel the threat of my bark? I am not a generic cola, I’m fucking Coca-Cola Cherry Coke. I am not your Silk soy milk substitute and if I am an egg, I can’t be poured from an Egg Beater carton. I’m not Lucy in the Sky with Cubic Zirconia. You’ve got to mine through 3 tons of rock to find something golden like me.

            Get to it. 

                 And at that moment in time, we were there. That moment, those minutes, and although it may have not meant anything to anyone in the world besides us two, in that instant, frozen and shattered into a thousand fragments of chains of short story scenes on an antique film reel, we were in love.                 Looking back, I don’t remember the entire movie of that section of our lives. I can only recollect certain scenes that stood out. Yet, although the full feature blurs in my mind, every so often the pause button is pushed. And the short flashes of life that I do recall are vibrantly painted from the corkscrew shadows of long eyelashes brushing his cheeks, to the way the afternoon sunlight danced through our sun-bleached hair in the summertime.                Time does not stop for anyone. The pendulum in life never ceases its constant beat—it is ignorant to the forlorn wishes to speed time up or slow it down, or end it altogether.

                 And at that moment in time, we were there. That moment, those minutes, and although it may have not meant anything to anyone in the world besides us two, in that instant, frozen and shattered into a thousand fragments of chains of short story scenes on an antique film reel, we were in love.

                Looking back, I don’t remember the entire movie of that section of our lives. I can only recollect certain scenes that stood out. Yet, although the full feature blurs in my mind, every so often the pause button is pushed. And the short flashes of life that I do recall are vibrantly painted from the corkscrew shadows of long eyelashes brushing his cheeks, to the way the afternoon sunlight danced through our sun-bleached hair in the summertime.

               Time does not stop for anyone. The pendulum in life never ceases its constant beat—it is ignorant to the forlorn wishes to speed time up or slow it down, or end it altogether.

It’s just a “summer love” but—love is not determined by the short nights and long days and fireflies or 4 dollar popsicles on the fourth of July—the ones that change color as you bite into them and snake streaks of sugar through your fingers. It doesn’t fade out with the glow-sticks and necklaces at the end of the night. Maybe love is just a side effect, sparked by the accidental gulps of chlorine and the pungent reek of sun block. It is not finalized by the falling leaves or by the waning mercury that sets like the August sun in the thermometer suction-cupped to your kitchen window. Why doesn’t every summer love turn into a winter romance?

It’s just a “summer love” but—love is not determined by the short nights and long days and fireflies or 4 dollar popsicles on the fourth of July—the ones that change color as you bite into them and snake streaks of sugar through your fingers. It doesn’t fade out with the glow-sticks and necklaces at the end of the night. Maybe love is just a side effect, sparked by the accidental gulps of chlorine and the pungent reek of sun block. It is not finalized by the falling leaves or by the waning mercury that sets like the August sun in the thermometer suction-cupped to your kitchen window. Why doesn’t every summer love turn into a winter romance?

Love’s not controlled by weather. You don’t throw away a summer love once the season ends—you turn it into a winter romance.

Love’s not controlled by weather. You don’t throw away a summer love once the season ends—you turn it into a winter romance.