Summer, by Heather Christle

Today you find yourself guilty
as the rim you split
an egg against
You press charges
You spell out your name
like the letters are medals
for good conduct in a bad war
The night moves in with you
into your room
until even your sleep
is not your own
Through the window
the grass tells you
to give up
and you are trying
but on the other hand
things keep you:
the moon, the cars, cars
You undress yourself
more deeply down
like this is the way
to get to the future
You let the darkness
medically examine you
So much can’t be
put back together
To burn the house down
to burn the house up
It’s the same problem
in any direction
You’re matter
You turn on the light

Summer, by Heather Christle

As I read this poem, "The Summer of `42" came to mind, and in particular I heard the wistful, reminiscent love theme by Michel Legrand.

Heather Christle