halfway between 16 and 30

now the stream runs low. stupored.

the bugs hover impatient and I

must will myself to stand again -

contort my limbs (as if dancing)

in the summer's deadening

muddy music. Arriving here (?)

with an address twice-removed

in the back of my throat and

no appetite. I let him kiss me -

his mouth, all melted ice cream

and some aftertaste of affection I

fear I won’t make sense of for

another decade. Again, I want

an arm to hold on to but I startle

at the sound of someone in the next

room. He serves me peeled fruit

like I’m his five-year-old daughter.

I settle in, unmoored.