Emma

14

We Compare Love to a Summer's Day

But all I can think of is the century that will come when the sun will reach out
and swallow us whole. It'll be in summer.

Winds crackling like dry old paper,
tarnished rings, the loss of all things
young and beautiful. At least we'll die together.

All I can think of is tyranny,
the stone thrones of worn-out kings,
dictators and attempted genocide, names

we don't ever dare to say, acts deemed unspeakable
that we cower from in our cross shadows, stories
faded on the scrolls of history, and we hide

our blemishes, our murderers, our mistakes, all
because we scare ourselves. No, more than that.
We disgust ourselves.

All I can think of
is the love that apparently happens that
I don't believe in. Summer flings,

brief spark exploding into fireworks,
all this laughter and all these colors and
so short. So fleeting. Artists sing

of young love, heartbreak, the same chords,
the same choked mind. Veins humming,
but not on fire. But what would I know?

I'm buried in sand. Vines curling around
my fingers, my neck, my driftwood bones,
morning glories flaring

in my eyes. Too dramatic?
I've got to follow the rules here.
Summer. Love. Even though you shrivel up.

Even though there's nothing left,
I don't think. Everything's already been said
and done. Nothing new under the sun.