we are summer

brass bones snapped back into
colloquial reminders that skirts are
feminine and made for summer,
what with the sunburns and scary
lobsters on the beach;
we're nothing but sandstorms.
and pretty rain.
and remembering childhood
freckles pasted on shoulders,
how my chest becomes a canvas
for skin cancer in twenty years
and never knowing how cigarettes
taste, either.
i'm not a smoker.
just in it for the women. dancing
in pastels, dreaming in solid colors.
they've all done it, you know.
we've all been there, in the eyes
of blue girls, in their heady
nightmares, how they thrash in
the hot night, but maybe it's just
the humidity. maybe it's not your
face. my white legs. too little time
in the june weather, like when
the ocean bites my ankles and forgets
that I am allergic to his salt; shriek,
peep, but no screams.
i am not that terrified.
she slinks under the sprinkler
like a cat, sleek, and her bathing
suit glues to her body; we have nipples,
we have stars. it is shimmering
under this good night moon,
and the heat rises off the pavement
of her stomach, while she lies
on the wet grass, naming all
the constellations in the summer sky.