as june bugs. warm weather phenomena.
waiting for us in lime and lemon light,
floorboard cracks and burning sidewalk pavement.
settling on a noon like leaf or birch.
i step on some. others, like fig-eaters,
like tiny ten-lined watermelons, i spare,
not keeping anyone alive for anything other
than connotation. and as for dodging, i prefer
sole to iris — a new breed of sidestepping.
am i too tall for you? too cluttered
with my stacks of dirty flatware that
cause your bodies to swell —? leftover porcini and
we are betrayed — science told us
your kind ate roots. but what of nights
when we are alone and cold despite the summer,
dreaming of walks and a time i somewhat recall
my small hand in yours, waking to a vellum echo
like faraway tin foil that is you
and your eggshell frame
moving through the walls, in and out
of baseboards. a scarab ghost
in the middle of june.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 2.
Gabrielle M. Peterson is a writer currently living in Chicago, Illinois. She reviews fiction for Midway Journal, is a contributor to The Huffington Post, and has written poems that have appeared in The Literary Bohemian, Chimes & Sirens, Euonia Review, Triggerfish Critical Review, and Front Porch Review.
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