i.

burlap, wire, aluminum foil, brown and shiny

maybe unwrapped easter kisses.

in the summer, we’ll leave the city or we won’t

a loitering menace

glittering in the streets, flag-waving, pot-smoking

borrow a cruiser from a friend and learn to skate

or buy a bike from the secondhand store off belmont

ride down lake shore 

show off those sun-peeled shiny shoulders

sheltered by sleeves for just three more weeks now

and then it’s all popsicle-flavored forgetting

retrograde amnesia

every day we’ll fall in love with the yellow sky all over again

whisper to each other, boozy breath tickling our ears:

‘all is not gold, but almost.’

ii.

my thoughts are all

still sunday mornings and my head is

heavy with un-thoughts, non-worries, not

words. i’m painting my face gold

with the sun’s chunky ray-strokes unwashed brushes but

still beautiful. none of the almost.

iii.

but almost all is not gold.

things are packing up; nothing is safe anymore. 

promises to stay in touch lipstick-linger on glass rims,

but things are not the same.

yellowing polaroids cover the streets,

all the tender leftover gold in their tendrils.

so it goes in these september blues:

returning his beat-up cruiser, i wear bruises as medals

for another sweetness survived.

but no saccharine summer had melted so exquisitely into my tongue

as this one. i savor its taste until my throat feels dry,

then cough it out with the common cold

and wipe it off my mouth.

Eva has been a writer since she knew how to write. She likes birds, cityscapes, thick coats of paint, wind, and singing russian folk songs to acoustic guitar.