by

Margaret Woodman-Russell

You taste like the first summer I ever drank ice coffee
and drove with my brand-new license, windows open, always.

I don’t have to wonder what you’re thinking,
I don’t have to wonder at all.

Adults speed over the little things
like kissing.

You slip your hand to the skin of my back.
I press my fingers against the taut muscle of your chest
and inhale.

I am thick in my familiar haze of codes and hints,
calculations and boasting,

when suddenly I see you clear and blue
like a child coming out of the pond:
kindness.

Your smile is uncensored and unembellished,
plain and even pure:
You have made me sixteen again.

There’s no time for more,
not today and not tomorrow,
so I’ll just remember you like watermelon,
like sugar and water,
innocent and unadorned.