SmokeLong Quarterly

Summer stole her. Little amphibious body. Falling hot sky, burnt marshmallows. Adults believing her lies. People’s stories told in their sleeping sighs, the shape of their hips as they walked. Bloody fingers rubbed together in the rain. Whispers to boys behind mossy trees, into their fragile chests. Clinging damp bathing suits chilling in the sun. When she gets home, her mother watches her peel a layer of dead, burnt skin from the back of her hand. “What did you learn?” she asks.