Sophie

14

Bask

Summer is, for me, not blazing hot.

I spend my summers
in classrooms,
cooled by fluorescent light
and the drowsing drone of the teacher
(Georgian, with Malboro Reds in his pocket each day).

He doesn't drawl, but rolls his Rs and has
too many consonants in his last name.
He told us, in his way, that there is
nothing in the world like solving a problem,
that the satisfaction was better than any
summer standby
of lemonade in brutal heat.

When I return
still sallow from a July of pencils and paper
I return to a town of sand in the streets and everywhere else,
and wind whisking away the sun's glare.

I spend my summers
on the beach,
stiff with seawater
and the burning sting of salt
(the wind in my face when I bicycle at night soothes it away).

Out at all hours, we are the party of eight
at the back of the diner
laughing too loudly to be polite.

We blast music in parks
after dark and bask in moonlight-
our sky's too smoky for stars.
They tell me that there's nothing like coffee at night
and that there's something special about
the boardwalk when it's empty except for us.

When I return
to a different classroom
(according to legend,
my school was built to the plans of a prison)
when the wind whips my face more harshly than
summer's ever could,
I remember the sun's glare.