My best friend in sixth grade
liked it when it was hot outside,
wanted to broil under the sun
like toast in the oven.
She wore shorts to school
on warm days, legs out
of their skinny jean sheaths,
knees sharp as shiny
pale knives.
Once, we missed the bus on purpose
to get my mom to drive us home,
had to wait outside the school for hours.
It was a hot day in spring,
and the sun was a ball of fire.
It raged above us, throwing hot punches
from the sky down to the green grass
on the ground.
We laid ourselves out like lizards
and soaked it up through our skin,
no water or tinted glasses, our vision
going spotty from all of the light.
When we got to my house,
she asked for a cup,
slurped it down
with the slow slink
of the afternoon.
It was hot outside,
and we were the fire,
young and thirsty,
bristling with the heat.
We sizzled and popped,
burned like the daylight,
burned like the candles
of our tiny lives.
YOU ARE READING
These People and I
PoetryThis year for National Poetry Writing Month, I want to challenge myself by mostly writing about people I wouldn't normally write about. This could include people from my past, present, or even future. I'll be adding a new poem by midnight each day i...
