I’m only moderately embarrassed to recite a poem in front of a crowd I can’t see very well.
Earlier that morning, I tell myself I’m not a good enough writer. That this is all garbage. But a happy otter in my lake refuses to let me take myself that seriously. He wants my attention, and shows me the fish he caught.
During a walk with Gigi, I see the first snail of the season and I’m delighted. I crouch down to film its perfect shape.
Ethel, a smoker who isn’t allowed to indulge in her habit near her apartment building, calls to me.
“What are you looking at?”
“A snail!” I tell her.
“Ew-a,” she says, before taking another long and peaceful drag.
This is my favorite time of year, summer baby that I am. Giant, beautiful clouds already form in the sky only to become angry and loud.
I let them abduct my melancholy.
Let it live in there, instead.
Soon my body won’t feel as heavy
as the shapes that hover over us,
a perfect slate blue, full of water.
I wish for them to open up.
I imagine myself
in water, weightless,
content with wishing and wanting
inside these rolling inclines
that make me endlessly search
for the way I felt last summer,
and the summer before,
and the summer I first reached
for something
I knew better than to touch.
Thoughts?