give it a year

Clarity came shining through like
the middle of July,

telling me -- just what to do -- just who
to do -- 'just June?' you say.  

That faded day she turned away
and I laughed like May--all day

until April showers woke me
up and flowers from the

March-ing band at the
band-stand, moms with gerber daisies in hand

chanting for the boy whose
Valentine gave up February

for his coked out New Year's
kiss. Hers were

the bruises tainting Christmas
eve, leaving space for

the place at the Thanksgiving table, recycling
--for pies-- the pumpkins from Halloween.

Nothing happened in September.
Nothing ever happens then.

The sun burned and kept on
burning like August thirty-first

on freckled skin and a dimpled
chin, lobster pink and

shimmering like we're back
to the fourth of the July.