SUMMER STARTS WITH S
Like sand and Sunday,
sweat and savory,
Alicia Silverstone in yellow skirt-suits,
stylish shower sex that starts sensibly,
standing,
soft stems spread to open,
soapy and steamy,
me, blonde Cher, a
Jane Austen parody, twisting
into you, my salt lake sanctuary, then
shaking, shaking, shaking, like
Seattle Swifties screaming in
seismic shifts,
swaying and splaying
shouting spectacularly before
sprays of saline,
secular signs in the sky,
silver souls streaming,
not a virgin, but hymenally challenged and
stressing;
Sparatacus stroking
my silky legs,
slippery and smooth,
should’ve said
stop,
should’ve said
slow
down,
who’s going to be there to catch you?
Oh Sergio, honey dearest, my
spaghetti western baby,
my forever sweetheart
smashing against me
with the strength of a sparrow, the
sadness of one thousand Septologies,
a man who needs to show that he’s
someone
who can do
something
breathtaking—
instead
he’s stalled,
holding my hands,
delirium tremens,
shaking
shaking
two synchronous waves
traveling the same surface
crashing
St. Andrew’s Cross
sketched on my shoulders
our shape, an oil painting,
tacky, never dry,
a frameless romance
shaking
six-hundred-pages of seance,
sentimental bathing imagery,
our Sweet Valley High summer love song
of sirens that will never stop
shaking shaking shaking—
oh sugar, my sweetie
darling ‘it boy’ of God
gone speechless,
blue-tinted beauty,
blue tiles sobbing,
blue coming of age shampoo bottle dented—
electric beard trimmer busted into pieces, its base against porcelain, seizing.
