Summer Lovin’

Sabrina Cofer

I spent a summer in your tiny house by the lake

waking up to your voice from a hostel bunk,

words dizzy with the miles and 7-11s,

sweat and mirage of Japan’s countryside.

 

Under kousa dogwoods and ornate shrines

you fed the deer round crackers,

found them unafraid and overwhelming,

muzzles wet and insistent on your palms.

 

Belly full of disco fries and summer shandy

I curled my body into a ball and tipped into

chlorine, the drop a hair’s breadth then a ripple,

the muddled sound of my heartbeat, capsized.

 

At night I climbed the loft ladder to 90-degree hell,

pulled the sheet into a tent over my head and watched

the mosquitoes put on a puppet show, my ankles

smeared with dried blood and lavender oil.

 

Your feet grew callouses through worn soles

as you slumped into egg salad and jasmine green tea.

I donned an apron and unpacked raspberry preserves,

jars of olives eyeballing the aisles, shiny tins of sardines.

 

In August we collapsed into each other at the airport

then reassumed our places on opposite ends of a string.