Jessai Flores

the inviolate red rock overlooking the greyed

connecticut shore watches sleepily as 

we clamber barefoot toward the sea

 

bottles and books and cheaply made rings

turning our fingers the color of the coastal tide pools

we skip over and around in the

quiet of the mid-afternoon lethargy 

 

which serves us as air

and there are kisses on sweat

-salted collarbones while

we smirk at the teenagers playing overly

 

simplistic rap and drinking watery beer below

on their dingy speedboats as 

the sun softens over

the crowns of our heads

 

we prostrate ourselves on twin lounge chairs

eggshell-worn and

adorned with small leaves in this

off-broadway facsimile entitled

junetime: (on domesticity)

 

pretending to read long impossible books 

crawlingly plucking at the lines

imprisoned and dogmatic in the 

choking pleasure of playing house

 

i am standing still without

curled inhalation for the first

time, windkissed and looking

out from atop a peak green with moss —

 

it will not last the month

MIRANDA WOLLEN