You wear a fire-engine-red bikini
at the Michigan City dunes.
The lake is cold
in the middle of August.
The sun burns as if focused
through a magnifying glass.
The sand is hot white sugar.
As we walk on the beach
there's a squeaking sound
with every step.
Little tufts of blue stem grass
grow here and there.
We spread our towels.
I read a book.
You want a tan.
Soon you ask me to rub
sun-tan lotion on your back,
the kind with that little girl
on the bottle.
I get up and do what you ask.
Seagulls pass overhead with secrets.
I lie down again.
What an opportunity we missed,
imagining you and I
behind one of the dunes.
We would've let others
eat sandwiches
with the inevitable sand.
Sometimes it's too hot at the beach
when you're twelve,
and like with other things --
you can never go back.
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