"I Wrote a Song, I Wrote a Song for You..."

[rainbowjehan]

In the South we spend the hot still nights
lying awake in the dark under the ceiling fan that rattles
and bucks as it spins,
its long chain shaking in the air. We
sift the sound of cicadas through our tired ears
and the dogs whimper and kick downstairs, dream-running on the rug.

After the Fourth of July show, we wade home,
barefoot on the hot asphalt, threading through the exodus
families, couples, and drunk college kids
the afterglow of fireworks
still hazing the black sky. The stars upstaged
are fighting to win back the night.

When we were lovers
you bought me glow-in-the-dark necklaces
and bracelets
and we joked about putting a float in the parade.
Some people are never friends again,
but you and I are still sitting on the porch with our too-sweet ice tea,
after walking through Sewanee after the street fair.

So we’re lucky. And if I miss you--
lying on the manmade beach of Lake Cheston
with your head in my lap and my hands in your hair--
if I lie awake on hot nights, chrysanthemum fireworks burning in showers
against my closed eyes
smelling cheap beer and the lake and your moon-slim body--

The dogs’ crying makes me sentimental.
They’re also longing for something that isn’t there,
their feet only beating against the still air.