By Lauren Locks
In Macon, summer is a white blouse
And chocolate milk.
Any other color holds hostage
The heat you so desperately
Want to be free from and any other
Beverage doesn’t spill down your throat
In the same refreshing way. I look out
The window above the sink, ignoring
One grossly impressive mountain
for another, and focus on an angle
Made of faraway birds. And I
Wish the childhood stories were true,
that a sack-carrying stork delivered
a baby to the doorstep of adults who
Were deemed ready and responsible. We
Are not ready. We are not responsible.
A mound of fur rubs against my calf
and I look down to see big black saucer eyes
Looking up at me. I kneel and stroke
an uptilted ear until she runs away,
Taking with her my unsettling train
Of thought and leaving me full of your voice
In my ears. You are reading a foreign
Poem to me, flaunting your skilled tongue
And appreciation of the arts, but I
Don’t find it impressive and my feelings
Are obvious and when you say, in French,
“L’echafaudage,” and I quickly interject
“God bless you,” my humor doesn’t humor
You and the air grows thick with realization.
I begin dicing mushrooms
In a desperate attempt to fill the air
But we both know where this is going.
We both know we’re missing more
Than we have.