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 Jul 2015 littlebrush
Kit
The sound of the overhead fan
immerses the vast room with calmness.
The breeze it gives off
coats my arms with goosebumps, harmless.
(study sessions at the library)

Laying in bed at night, shirtless, sweaty
I can feel the moisture pooling up at the bottom of my spine.
The windows open, cooling the perspiration from my back,
the neighbors AC gives off a low whine.
(late night sleepovers)

Mosquito bites cover my legs,
on a humid fourth of July night.
Gunshots, no, fireworks,
light up the night like dynamite.
(our scary/happy night)

Lonely nights, wait no sorry, happy nights,
with no one, everyone.
Long walks at 5:00PM no 3:00AM,
wait no 5:00PM with anyone.
(you're not here, what do I do?)

I can hear people walking at night,
but I'm not with them.
I can hear my pulse in my ears,
it's 5:32AM
(I don't know if you're alive)

I remember eating popsicles with you,
we got the red stains around our lips.
My hand around your wrist,
your pulse at my fingertips.
(will I feel it again?)

Last day of summer,
I decide to visit you at the hospital.
You're holding his hand,
while eating our rocket popsicle.
("your" rocket popsicle)

My Favorite (Hated) Summer
I tried to communicate a story through this poem.
Was it understood?
 Jul 2015 littlebrush
Coop Lee
hammock and a stack of playboys.
first emerged,
boy.

feature trees and teens and punch drunk lovers.
chalk murals,
girl.

into the quiet density of love.
quiet city.
dance party, usa.

we end up making movies about our fathers
whether we know it or not.
home videos.

we double down on arcade tickets
& spin for a kite to tangle.
climb the town hill and bury our warmth.

kiss to forget or remember this bliss
& strange language.
strange sprawl of lights seen.

the homeowner’s association melt a pile of plastic flamingos
into an idol osiris.
dead god.
& wait,
wait for halloween.

our parentals diligently sweat.
they are conjurors of snacks and supper.
they are creatures of the ritual routine.

we ritual.
we homework.
we breathe easy, waiting for nothing.

   (except for more holidays)
recently published in The Bayou Review


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