On Joycelyn Dr.

We could tell it was summer

when the sky was so blue it hurt,

and crepe myrtles blossomed,

scattering petals of amethyst and blood red.

Our fingers smelled like crushed

lemongrass and pine needles,

as we pressed bare thighs against warm

cement, and gravel embedded into our skin.

We stole ladders to climb buildings, running

across tin roofs from wasps swarming around our ankles.

There was the house with baby duck

curtains, a broken basketball post, and the tree

we carved our names into and hung from,

like the leaves swaying in the wind.

We ran down the levee, the grass

underneath us slick with rain and threatening

to send us rolling into the forest behind our houses.

On the water’s edge, we made leaf boats,

had picnics of stolen grass jelly drinks,

instant noodles, and already opened chips.

Even as we watched yellow street lamps

replace sunlight, it was never time

to go home until we drowned

in the stars, heads thrown back

as we stumbled across cracked streets.