In the thick of the second summer, the smell of rain hangs high in the air, close to the clouds beside my open window.The fever of a thunderstorm beyond holds my face in its heart-shapedpalms.Mist hangs low in the valley that holds the lake in cupped hands.I havenever seen it mist like it does here.
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The second summer runs its fingers through my damp hair, as if telling me a promise.Thecycle of mist and clouds runs and repeats as the night grows deeper.
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A memory from a very long time ago-- My shins pressed into the wet grass, stars above.The Dippers, Cassiopeia faint in mymind. A book of stars sits on my shelf. In the morning, my white shirt, grass-stained, is on my floor.
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I am sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, looking up at you. I reach myhand out. You take what is in it, we touch for a second, and you keep moving.
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The second summer is a hundred degrees hot, sticky on my face and the backs of myknees.I open my door with you close behind me, holding my life in your hands. The blood-gold sun streams through my window from all angles, coating all four wallsof my room in a bright, thick syrup. The still, hot air holds the sugary smell of ripe fruit. Groceries that need to be put away lie helter-skelter on my floor:peaches, strawberries,cilantro, granola, peanut butter, bananas, limes, peppers. Mydirty shoes are untied. Fresh bug bites cover my shins. Every strand of my hair is aflyaway, caught in the humidity. Behind me, pink carnations sit in a glass jar on my windowsill, watching, knowing. Your silhouettelays on mycloset doors.
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A song of the second summer, you play the piano on my back.
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For the length of the days that follow, I wish to tell you, softly, Come here.
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Alone now, I lay on my back in bed and listen to the cars outside. Distant gold lights of thecityglimmer through the trees. My eyes search the dark.
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The humidity of the second summer breaks. The spaces between the trees fill withmist, and it pours and pours. The earth cools. The forest across from my room lookslike a jungle, the sunshines like a halo above the horizon, and lightning strikes a pinkcloud in the sky. The rain demands my attention, drops striking the roof. Inside, your fingers drumthe surface of my skin, quieter, closer,slower than the rain. My head switches between thelegato of your fingers on my backand the urgency of the rain, Your fingers and the rain.
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I see you for an incomplete second, outside my door, half of your face lookingthrough theframe. The moment flutters like a small bird, and then it is gone.
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In a dream, I am sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, eating strawberriesand lookingup at you. I hand you one. You take it, and you look at me.
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In the middle of a night during the second summer, the air moves. Our clothes cover thefloor and themoonlight covers our clothes.
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If you ever come out with me at 7:00 on an evening of the second summer, I will show you thesecrets I see every night: daisies congregating in expanses of Indian grass,honeysuckle bushesgrowing tall, bird calls, the breeze blowing in the direction of thesunset, breaking the humidity. Then, I can tell you the ones further from now--the exact weekend in October when theleaves have reached their peaks, the temperature of the waterfall after the sun has set,the time of the sunrise in November.
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The breeze blows away another day of the second summer. The sun sets behind a wide building. Aclaw-scratch moon hangs in the quiet sky.
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The second summer Left as it came—raining down From tall thunderheads Collecting as mist in the bowl of my memory, held by cupped hands.
Greta Unetich published her debut book of poetry, Look Both Ways, in 2019 and Polaris in 2021. Artist’s Rendition: New and Selected Prose was published by Bottlecap press in 2022. Unetich is an editor for Buzzsaw Magazine and Detritus Zine. In addition, their poems have been published in several magazines across the United States, Canada, and India. Unetich attends Ithaca College where she majors in biology and minors in chemistry and education.
Ruthenium (she/they) is an artist and writer currently living in the state of uncertainty. They believe creativity is real-life magic, and are obsessed with texture, context, light, and the question “what if?...” Their work has been published in Sandpiper, Rabble Review, Celestite Poetry, Lavender Lime Literary, Vulnerary Magazine, and Warning Lines Literary. Their various presences, publications, and collections can be found at https://linktr.ee/Ruthenium.