First Summer

the cracked vinyl seats seared our bare legs

on the way to swimming lessons

& church; thick air stifled all conversation

exhaust & humidity sat heavy in our laps

the crowded Chevy Nova you borrowed from your brother

roared forward like an angry green reptile. its AM radio

crackled on: love the lord & beware the devil's lure

lust not, fear not

the purifying flames of Hell

child-philosophers: what is fire

—liquid? solid? gas? or something else

entirely? it's eternal damnation

you said with the calm sagacity

of the righteous sycamore & the oak

guppies advancing to minnows

we choked on chlorine and paddled our

hearts out—while you sat on the metal bleachers,

watching the lifeguards closely and counting

the neon exit signs. there

were band-aids and a Bible in your pocketbook

just in case

& underwater, in our transparent teal cave

strings of pearly bubbles rose up from our pale lips, begging

God to bring back Our Father: silver rosary beads of prayer

rising full of hope & boiling the surface

—Sarah Yost