The sky blackens and forests roar,
ash clouds above scalding ground
concrete snaps underfoot.
Fires travel: the land is everchanging
growing hotter and hotter.
what does not melt, will burn
While grown men across the desert plain
cream themselves over the cricket;
“This is for the ashes, for the ashes,
only one more wicket,
then we shall inherit the earth.”
Oblivious in the knowledge proven that the
world is dying
in their hands.
A dead world, emptied of riches, left
to them in their
sticky, white hands.
Mango juice, crisp and fresh drips from sunshine flesh,
clutched in hands a precious treasure, down my thighs.
You lick me clean for the first time,
and catch my breath in your throat.
Crickets chirp and croak,
squeal and sing: they give away
the sound of sweltering heat on a summer night.
This sweet nectar will sustain me for hours, stain
my skin golden, a kiss from Apollo.
A loose shirt, meant to flow like water
sticks to my belly wet with sweat, that drips
from my scalp down long red curls.
Like a mermaid, I learn to walk again;
take my first steps after your kisses,
I stumble over.
Joint in hand, a real rocknrolla on a pineapple express
whisks me away to witness the rebirth
of a once nymphet child, now goddess grown.
Hear our oral bildungsroman, the age
of an enlightened mortality has begun:
we haven’t time for innocent play anymore.
Mango juice drips down my thighs,
I cast my voice and drown out the crickets
while the memory of your kiss still burns my mind.
I will forever remember that summer, that night.