After finals we play old records in the heat & the boys hit on us
in clean Adidas with filthy mouths while we smoke & sing Let it Bleed
Brian Jones was beautiful but that’s not the way I want to go. Face down
in the deep end, one bloated lung & a rusty lounge chair. Anything is better
than bad grades & big hair, getting wasted on the sidelines watching Dan
rip off his shirt after the penalty as color leaks from the sky. I want to stand
beneath a lightning struck tree, hold on as the power fails, kiss lips that fill
my journal, lemonade eyes undressing me slowly. But I’ll settle for a summer
of Stoli & swagger, my back against a chain-link fence, fingers & tongue
in the long grass at the reservoir, behind the multiplex with his mates
watching. Knuckles grip aerosol cans sucking
jerking
sinking
Months of treading water & drowning seems inevitable
I’ll be the last one standing come September lift the needle & let it
drop
