That summer’s hit, with its cloying melody and saxophone
like a woozy mosquito, I buried in the midden
to be processed by earworms,
but the song left a residue—I was cycling alone
on the shoulder of a New Hampshire highway
to my classmate’s house in the trees, where the newly dug pond
was partway full and fully muddy.
We did not go deep into our friendship but dog paddled
the surface, stirring up the smell of pine and lotion and the jab
of stones on bare teenage feet as lyrics leaked from a radio,
silk dresses and lost tickets floating above us
just out of reach like garish lures.
writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and makes her husband laugh in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Chattahoochee Review, Tar River Poetry, Crab Orchard Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and New Ohio Review. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.
Author’s website: https://sarahcarleton.com