summer was a smashed flat of overripe strawberries postpartum of rascal raspberries the ghost of my black lab moseyed through when we weren’t looking, slobbering the fruits off their inverted honeycomb coathangers, saving a few for his return journey to the ghost of my grandpa.
the moon waxes across my street, but misses the parking lot of the neighboring apartment complex I think is charming and mysterious but my roommates call sketch. I dunno if that’s because some of the people who live there speak different languages or because asphalt swallows what could have been a backyard in some other life. The moon misses the shards of beer bottles so the only light informing my eyes of my feet’s enemies is the green-white light that bores through the arborvitae and sometimes between the slats of my cheap and dusty venetian blinds at night.
I’ve got a thing for stucco homes, but not the suburban, so-sterile-the-deer-don’t-nibble variety. something about the dust between the pores makes me feel more worthy
I consider how clever I am
it doesn’t last long
before I get hungry
when I press my finger to one of the strawberries and pull it away, I notice a division between seedy coat and the underguts and it sure reminds me, reminds me, sure, of old summers, scabs, and swimming
losing scabs to the soggy
and don’t you know that
I live with a german shepherd with a foot and ear fetish and keen fear of the grate at the bridge from first to second floors?
I pat myself on the back by reminding myself I don’t pee on the floor when I meet strangers, but someday someone’s gonna tell me to raise my expectations.
eyes closed to slobbery toes, maybe
maybe I will
I once caught a friend I thought was a good one making out, hair all messy, lips chapped, with cambria in a closet, after which I considered one-night flirting with comic sans but I just couldn’t stomach the poly
eyes closed eyes closed
draw the blinds
tell me this wasn’t better than any hour frittered on okcupid, nodon’ttellmeamatchwhenwearen’tcupid, where I toss breadcrumbs beneath tree roots looking for chipmunks that watch games
lacy bras and binders
tell me something happened this summer.
Sometimes I find nonsense I’d forgotten about hidden on my computer. I am glad the strawberries didn’t rot —but if they had, maybe something would have grown from their juices.