The Pond
By Rebecca L. Morrison

July found us

disguised as

rounded ripples

conjured by our invertebrate toes.

Third grade thighs

sizzled on a griddle

of sun-baked flagstone.

Our limp ponytails slid

down sweaty spines

as our eyes, all blue,

searched the sky for

the insatiable thunder of engines.

My hand on hers,

our swimsuits soggy,

and her twin sisters

braid their corn silk

hair. And the icy pond

is all that shields me

from assuming we

four friends are

caught in an infinite loop of good spirits.

But the toll of the dinnertime bell

is the nearest ending I've written,

short-sighted. We scamper to the

screened-in porch at sundown,

a ritual feast of burnt hot-dogs and Breyer's ice cream.

July has found me, and

I've forgotten her

twenty-second birthday,

and the twins smoke

cigarettes now, proud

of the wisping rings

they conjure through

rounded lips, pushed past by their invertebrate tongues.