Lake Erie in Late July​

​

I could almost see him

out on the water, early morning,

before the breath of summer could

condense on our skin.

​

The sunlight would glimmer

off the surface, turning his nose

pink, even though I remembered

the sunscreen this time.

​

Maybe I'd be at the front of the boat,

"reading" with my legs hanging down,

my toes almost grazing the lake

as I lounge in the spare orange jacket.

​

But I'd probably just be talking,

breaking his concentration,

and he'd say my bare feet

were scaring away the fish.

​

And I'd just say that he'd

blame anyone but himself

for coming home empty-handed,

and he'd give me a look, then grin.

​

I'd be getting hungry as noon

approached, and he'd be getting

hot, so we'd head toward shore,

pile into his pickup.

​

The ceiling in the cab would be high,

so high that my hair wouldn't even

brush against it,

not like it did in most cars.

​

And we'd go home together.

​

But, instead,

I'm left here

wondering

why we could never

share our sunlight,

that nuclear disinfectant.

​

Instead,

I'm left here

thinking, again,

he shouldn't have even

told me what he wanted,

not if he couldn't take it,

if he couldn't take me.

​

​

This poem originally appeared in Whimsical Publishing Press's second anthology: Elements.