Emily in the Grass

Mosquitoes

Mosquitoes nipped at bare ankles

small, pink swells of flesh rising in their wake.

Sweet, sick mementos.

Oozing fluid and scratched with dirty nails.

Sock-less feet in Mary Janes collecting

rocks and leaves and blister that split

and cried onto hot skin.

We felt the sting of our own sweat in our eyes and tasted the salt on our tongues.

Soaking smocked dresses and muddying their hems.

The thick August air weighed heavy on our backs.

Our parents called our names

at the space between our narrow, freckled shoulders.

We kept forward.

We three pioneers of the other side of the picket fence,

Pressing deep into the suburban wood.

Roommate

New Work - SMFA

I dreamt she was drowning in a cloudy, hot puddle.

Barefoot on the asphalt I watched and couldn't move.

She began to melt away.

Into iridescent grease.

Rancid meat left out in the sun.

I heard our mother wailing, crying out to god.

She was a shadow, not quite reaching where I stood.

My feet on the parched, yellow grass.

Where we played in the dirt with sticks and shovels.

Where we sat in pools of water from the dripping garden hose.

Pagan treasures in our pockets.

Of rocks and teeth and tiny gold lockets.

We should have said our prayers.

Kept silky pink bows in our hair.

And cried harder over our dead dogs.