You will have
as many summers
as are needed.

The world
will boil, the sea will chafe
your skin, you’ll wake up
alone perhaps more times than not
and carry that with you
all day and night
into the next day,
all bones and sorrow;
you’ll still be in summer.

You will still wake up
and face it: one day, angry
at yourself and others
and at nameless men
who will come and judge you
and find you alive and
to your chagrin
not kill you, let you off
with a warning because
their prisons overflow
and their graveyards overflow
and they themselves overflow
with sorrow or calluses;
but it will still be summer.

You will sit
in the hot, uncooling darkness
with mosquitoes roaming and settling in
upon your skin;
you may yearn for
a kiss or something more
or you will be implored
for something more;
it will still be summer
and in spite of that,
or because of that, you will
forget the rest and sigh.
It will still be summer,
if only for a little while,
and you will seize it and take
what’s needed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T