The grass brightens as the sun descends.
You and the neighbor kids practice
headstands and cartwheels,
and with each flip the lawn goes greener,
greener, almost to blue.
Your parents relax on the built-on deck,
webbed chairs three-quarters back,
a pack of Parliaments between them.
A radio plays Jack Jones:
Hey little girl,
Fix your hair, do your makeup.
It’s one week until school:
wool skirts lined up in the closet,
spiral notebooks stacked on the desk.
But now, fireflies blink in the bushes
and your brother’s ten-speed bike
tick ticks into the driveway.
The moon pulls up from behind the hedges
and shines on all of it: your family,
your home, your street;
poised on an island shaped like a fish,
floating in the choppy water.
Published in Best New AZ Poems
Photo by Krzysztof Maksimiuk on Unsplash