Summer, poem by Brenda Glasure

Some days I remember, but mostly the nights.

We swallowed hard, Kentucky bourbon burn,

Crudités of pretzels and Slim Jims and peanuts.

We rubbed our eyes against the soft of dusk,

birdsong slept, turned crickets and bullfrogs,

the tight buzz of mosquitoes drifted past.


Our legs hugged the curves of the hood on the old Nash,

rusted-out observatory in the middle of the south field.

The radio whispered, thin needle scratched the dirt,

old love songs and poets and steel guitars.


We flung our arms wide in the weak-kneed darkness,

pushed gravity back, wished for power to soar,

slingshot past the sun on our way to Andromeda.

you be the prince, I the dragon.


In the middle of a wheat field, crop circles in straw

the earth spun, a Cohen record in the dark,

the stars whipped, Medusa’s mane,

motes of dust, stunned in a moonbeam.

We made ourselves dance, awkward Jr. High sway,

just to keep from turning to stone.

Brenda Glasure’s poetry, creative non-fiction, and short stories have appeared in Strong Verse, Driftwood Review, Story Garden 5 and 7 and several other online journals – largely under her pen name, Adria Abbott Glass. She grew up in a small Ohio town, and spent her summers working on her grandparents’ dairy farm. She currently lives on the Northcoast, running a handmade jewelry business and writing.


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