Erin Rodoni

Of the Tribe of Summer
by Erin Rodoni

Mini-Cleopatras of the backyard creek,

what faith shakes us from the bone

of make-believe? Sometimes lions, we

stretch sun-lengthened limbs, laugh fierce

bells of lilac. Sometimes meat, we dream

the soft darkness of mane pressing us

downward as we’re devoured, each invisible

portion of flesh. Grasshoppers rise from the bank

in silent applause. July parades her turgid belly

straight down Main Street, splintering shutters

with school-girl swagger. Dry sheets rust

to clotheslines. We light our throats with butter

cups, witch our hair in silt the sheen of night.

We, of spoon-bending mind, of voodoo

nouns, shift board into plume, lift as one nude

into bloom along the roadside. Water whispers

from our skin. Old men in pick-ups avert their eyes.

Others turn and turn. Before we melt back into the forest

of our clothes, we hula hoop our hips in bee-haze

heat. Each grin a lavish display of blackberry ink

or sheen of blood between our teeth.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 3.

Erin RodoniErin Rodoni earned her MFA in poetry from San Diego State University. She won a 2013 Intro Journals Award from AWP. She is a sometime editor, part time massage therapist, and full time mom. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and 3 year old daughter.

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