Will her screaming
like hot summer rain
pounding the ache of time
into scorching sidewalk
evaporate the purple bruise
raising below her eye?
Who will hear
the longing for lazy
afternoons on her parent's porch?
The Scrabble games with the girls
regaining the pleasures
of paddle pushers
and ice cold Millers
with each misspelled word.
Will the ice pack freeze
the ache of summer nights
when Bobby’s battles
with mosquitoes became
preliminary bouts
and anticipation
made her stomach
a bitter bile of regrets
and regurgitated ambitions?