In all of time, in all the world, oh how he burns for her—
the wanting of nothing more than her pink lips
to wrap around him in one gripping breath,
the inhale of him into her ready mouth.
Instead she shuns him,
& turning to leave him streetside,
she realizes he will eventually consume himself.
This time he’ll leave nothing behind—
We would pass the fields,
green corn crisping to brown,
soybeans twisted and tumbling onto the road,
August’s thick-stemmed sunflowers nodding their hello.
We walked the white line, followed it slowly
over low Maryland hills as sweat dripped
from the backs of our knees and the street miraged
itself into puddles we never could quite reach—
And always, always, the low hum of the bumblebees.
We spoke of being grown up,
if only, if only…
Back then, summer stretched across forever,
like the green fields themselves as they rose and fell
to the cadence of our footsteps, and the lazy music of the bees.
There are times when I can still see that white line
and I watch as it fades into the sticky black tar of yesterday.
© Tara A. Elliott
Tara A. Elliott lives on the Eastern Shore of Maryland with her husband and son, where she is currently serving as the Light of Literacy Educator for Wicomico County. She is the former editor of Triplopia, the current director of the reading series Eastern Shore Voices, and has been published in The HyperTexts.