AFTER FLASH RAIN IN SUMMER
LAUREN W. WESTERFIELD
Dumpsters, Subarus. A melted cigarette.
Brick wall hot against my back—
As in, my tongue against your wrist.
As in, your breath against my neck, down my jaw—my spine—
Flowers peal like thunder off my dress,
into your hands: white and yellow tumble
through your fingers
as you finger—this:
cotton, brick, the universe.
As in, your hand slides up:
my memory. Your eyes
are sea glass: welcome thieves.
Just above us, couples are asleep. I know—that is, remember—
being half of such a couple. That is, I know the alley
by its night sounds: lovers, laughter, cars.
As in, a car drives by and someone hollers.
As in, you laugh a menthol dream into my hair.
—and drying rain, damp trash. A swirl of new dust.
Sidewalks look like cotton; taste like smoke.