In the summer, when the air is warm
and the ladybirds scuttle over rockeries
and worms bake on the concrete;
When the looming new school year
wills your bones and fears to grow,
and drinks have straws
and grass floats in the paddling pool,
He comes to me on the faint hum of a wasp,
cupping all the yellow petals,
and counts them out, each one
a deed. I rub them between my fingers,
tiny scrolls of shame, and feel the sun blaze.
In the summer, when doors creak
in the afternoon breeze and the ice cream
van has you running barefoot in the street,
I lay with him and sink into his prickly
flesh, breathing silent as a butterfly,
the yellow petals crushed beneath us.