Summer bugs erupt midair, my
windshield wrought with juice. He
says, “Look out the window,”
fingers running through my hair.
His gum is chewed in rhythm, I
pop bubbles on my nose. Bare foot
hits the brake, skid marks on the
road. And I can smell the sand.

At the supermarket, we pull into the
parking lot, prepackaged pineapples,
tucked under our shirts. Sipping Coca
Cola through a straw. I stand near
the freezer. Frozen pizzas cool my
skin and the floor is slippery. Slide
our feet across the tiles.

We eat watermelons at the beach
sticky hands and dripping chins. No
time for modesty. Blue bikini
top with only flip flops on. They
flip and flop and we fuck in the
sand, sticks to my wet sun-kissed sun
lips. Cherry Slushee on my cheek and
the sunburn stings, “Baby please,” but
he touches me in the spot that makes
my eyes roll back.

We listen to the Rolling Stones, CD
players and two beers for three dollars.
With his fake face on, Ray-Bans
block the sun. And his hand on my
hip, skin smooth, as vanilla ice cream
licks, tongues that sprinkles stain, and
ours entangled. He says, “You taste like
summer.” I kiss him harder.

I’m greased up like a grilled cheese,
sunscreen on my nose. He coats my
back with oil, trickles to my toes. Ankle
bracelets make him rise and blunts
will make us high. Fashion magazines,
lick my fingers, turn the pages.
“Do I look like Cindy Crawford?”

Our bodies fold into the beach.
Sprawled on towels, and his finger
makes my leg go weak. Only I don't
do well in heat, but I could live
in his hair, build a nest in his arms.