I lay on my back, under the sycamore trees, the pods prickly, outlined by blue sky. Your drawl in my ear, Sophie in her chair, cast my memory back there, Lord, sometimes I'm overcome, thinkin' bout.
We met at someone's house on Lake Placid later that summer, you from Canada and me from Rhode Island. Lying in someone else's big bed, you noticed that my thighs were slightly bigger. You're generally too scrawny, you said. I like you this way. I held onto the spindles, scratched a mosquito bite, made a cross with my nail to stop the itch.