Meghan Bennett
Summer dies as it always dies: begging for it,
sweat-drenched and tired, a little angry—
but understanding if you have better things to do.
So summer swells like a bloating corpse
in a drained swimming pool,
but at least the music is damn good—
a proper camp horror flick
with a stellar soundtrack, lots of nostalgia
to really bank on the it’s happy and poppy but
it’s all written in blood vibe of the sixties.
What’s that saying? “If you can remember the sixties,
you weren’t really there.”
So it matters what we choose to pretend to forget.
You go outside on the front drive in the evenings
to watch Orion peek over the horizon, suspicious,
the satellites full of civilians hurtling through
the ribs of Greek gods and their underfed mutant pets.
Autumn feels like an impossibility,
but every death must have its grief cycle
so you go inside and lie shirtless on the hardwood floor
and hold your own wake. Next time you blink
there’ll be skeletons and tinsel and stale candy hearts
and then you’ll blink again and look, resurrection.
And the music is still excellent.
And the sun is still red and bleeding
again, again, again.