I used to know
a different kind of
midday summer sweat
when my world was once
less bone-dry concrete
and silvered sharp angles
that loomed past the sky
It was the kind of wet
that grumbled
after miles on the seat of a bike
(rust-red in some places from miscare)
past the smell of earth that blurred
in the edges of my vision
with each persistent turn of my pedals
Back then I lived exactly five miles
from anywhere interesting
but my feet always pointed
to one place from my front yard
straight up and a little to the right
your house out of sight at the end
of a lane flanked by cornfields
And so we passed several Julys together
drank too-sweet Kool-aid
basked in slanted light from a backyard pond
ran till we lost track of our breath
sat on a hilltop and sought out
the kind of sunburn
that wakes up and breathes
You and I
once exchanged words
as if our dreams were currency
as if every day was meant
for watching the sun slip into silence
until each star was certain
and singing above us
Alicia Drier is a recent transplant to Indianapolis, where she is a high school English teacher and bread shop aficionado. When she isn't writing or cohosting the podcast Lit Think, she is hiking with her partner and experimenting in the kitchen. She writes poetry.
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