SUMMER OF ‘21
by June Lin
that summer upscale weed stores opened in every suburban strip mall,
we lived only in liminal hours; the breaths of other people’s new bedrooms,
the little pink drinks in someone else’s plastic cups. i still remember
the way our eyes watered at everything –
hand sanitizer, the Thames beneath our feet, the vape smoke
that girl with the crispy hair blew into our faces while waiting in line for the carnival.
we lived like a glass of ice wine before dinner, all joy without consequence.
i was a horse unbridled, one leg injury away from a shot to the head, and you
would always hold me at the end of the night, under the kitchen lights, in the evening blue.
our windows face the football stadium, covered with a thick curtain of trees,
but in my memories, there’s swathes of sun and you against my sink, sponge in hand.
i’d peel the last orange and put half of it in your mouth. we were obnoxiously cuddly
but still got two spoons for one bowl of ice cream – efficiency. we took everything
we were offered and rolled our eyes at flashy cars going by. the future
glimmered before us like a broken streetlight.
if we looked carefully enough we could see all of it
– between heartbeats, bad jokes, and gut punches – before it turned off again.
June Lin is a young poet. She loves practical fruits, like clementines and bananas.