For summer: swallow the petal and the bee
and blow first-rate sour diesel into my mouth.
This is what you do in Ohio, you’re gonna
fit right in. In Ohio we cherish our hauntings,
but it’s okay—you’ll learn to share. Ohio’s most important lesson
is to love unconditionally and I’m afraid I need some review.
Look around you, child, God is pouring corn feed from the sky,
deer and pheasant are dancing. I’ll roll if you play lookout,
fold it over, tongue-tip to wet the glue—like riding a bike.
Trust me, this is how I spend all my summers, sunburnt
in the shade halfway between asleep and awake. Ohio
gets hot enough to rot your bones, but nothing that lives
in this forest can hurt us. Ohio is for lovers: we should
try it sometime. You could finally let me touch the space
between your shoulders. Please, listen to what I’ve learned,
Ohio is a gentle friend: her snakes don’t bite, her hills
forgiving, her heart is like your heart. I dream of summer,
of passing a bee between our hands. I remember
when this all started: I saw you laughing. It is all I remember.