Sandra

16

"the moon still howls on cold summer nights"

it's night-time and we're together
on my front porch swing, licking
dripping butter pecan ice cream
from our wrists (because sweet waffle
cones can't be trusted), the dim light
of the setting sun washing our cheeks
bright pink, and there's a halo around your
blissed face, and it glows, and you're glowing—
thirty minutes before it all ends.

it's night-time and we're together
on my front porch swing, nuzzled
under a deep green fleece blanket
because the ocean's breeze is too
strong to go without protection,
yet this is still as glamorous as
ev'ryone thinks: the waves rolling, crashing
against the shore, leaving shells and coins—
twenty minutes before it all ends.

it's night-time and we're together
on a blanket in the sand,
hair splayed recklessly under us
as we point and squeal at the stars,
shaping them, naming them (like we
did back when we were young and didn't
know much else), calling the goddesses
above about the moment we're in—
ten minutes before it all ends.

it's night-time and we're together
on the soggy-wet shore-line
toeing our shoes off, socks off,
and, despite the chill in the air,
the chill in the water ahead,
we close the space between land and sea,
splashing merrily about in it,
shivering under the fair moon-light—
two minutes before it all ends.

it's night-time and we're together
standing calf-deep in water,
the waves soft, rumb'ling beneath us,
no other life in sight: no ships
with tall sails, no sharks with sharp teeth;
nothing but us and the moon-light and
the waves crawling higher up our legs,
engulfing our soft skin and dry clothes—
that's when it all ends.