In the slow groaning passage of summer,
the only thing worse than being in the dirt
was sitting and watching your yard
sizzle,
vinyl folding chairs
branding your thighs,
jars of watered-down lemonade
sweating puddles on the porch rail
my sister and I are mid-glory:
two months
in wild rebellion of our parents’ wishes.
we’d skipped auditions for theatre camp
to walk next door
and watch an endless succession of kickflips.
We vowed to dive headfirst
into our hard-earned laziness.
now,
though we would never voice it,
we were neck-deep in regret:
we would have rioted for anything.
would have taken up amateur picket signs
and stormed public offices,
if anything had been coarse enough to get under our pinked skin.
This article appears in June 2012.
