SUMMER STORM
and your hand on my knee. We
are in your car. The world is water and I
fly out tomorrow and I still have to pack
a few things, make a few things
yours. Whatever won’t fit you
can keep until I’m back, or until
you lose the memory. I make you
take photos. One from when we hiked
Camelback Mountain and we are
very small, downhill, feet
shelled with the carapaces of dead
desert things, cicada shells
a dead thing cracking open
for a living thing—another life cycle
away from singing. Tiny and sky-close,
something numinous about how we refuse
to look up. The world ends outside this car,
above that desert peak. The inside of a cloud
looks to us like different things:
you see smoke before the fire’s out
and me, heavy mist before a rain. The rain
comes harder. The fire
is in my head and your head
is in my hand. The car is the dead thing
holding two living things.
Sierra Rose Lindsay is an MFA candidate in fiction at Adelphi University whose current work explores the conditions of girlhood, female sexuality, and agency with attention to how society invites violence upon the body. She has previously been awarded the University of Arizona Poetry Center Award, the Fred Scott Award for Outstanding Composition, and several university scholarships for selections of her fiction and poetry. An Arizona native and true Taurus, you can currently find Sierra in Brooklyn, NY researching winter coats, learning how to drink wine, and stocking produce at her local Trader Joe’s.
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