Let me tell you, Sue, about
the fireworks today -- flowers and flowers.
It's still summer here, Sue, even when
I know you smell the smell of ice now:
lightning, plastic, salt.
It is summer on the edge of fall here, Sue,
when I can hear the leaves curling up crunchy
switching like Ma's paper fan in the shade.
Remember the good times, Sue? Let me
tell you that the grass is still tall here.
The grey tops dust on the faces of picnic-goers --
reminds me of us, Sue, the summer we were ten.
Short shorts, cold milk, airy cool farmhouses,
the wheat tall and golden between our eyes,
and the grains spelled out what I've
tried to remeber, mostly forgotten,
a secret map of girlhood
no one else could read.