Summer Starts with S

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.