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SUMMER SLUMBER, by Farrah Celler
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SUMMER SLUMBER, by Farrah Celler.

It was her, June, July, and August
in the narrow iron bed.
Bent, bruised knees
and kaleidoscope weeks, folded
inwards
to make room
for one another;
Unhurried breath,
blown across sandpaper pillowcases,
dressed in faded floral prints; and
The occasional ocean breeze, whispering
through sun bleached curtains,
brushing its fingertips over their salty, sand dusted skin,
and dropping into their dreams
the sediment
of days gone by . . .
Of hours squandered in beachside repose
without an ounce of regret;
Of lazy, multilingual conversations,
littered with miscommunications;
enlivened, now and then, by gestures and charades,
and by R's rolled and rounded,
swallowed, bitten,
hocked,
discarded;
Of shadows grown long and proud,
grown impatient with their idle ways, and eventually gone to console the sinking sun,
leaving them in the quiet company of the moon . . .
Leaving them on darkened, metallic glinting shores;
Leaving them afloat, on their backs,
in the midnight waves' languorous embrace;
Leaving them to make their tired way back
to the shadow scattered room they share . . .
Shoes in hand, hand in hand
To the iron bed;
To curl into one another, and cling while they can,
to the chimerical pace of time spent
in unfamiliar cities, with intimate strangers, It was her, June, July, and August
in the narrow iron bed.
Bent, bruised knees
and kaleidoscope weeks, folded
inwards
to make room
for one another;
Unhurried breath,
blown across sandpaper pillowcases,
dressed in faded floral prints; and
The occasional ocean breeze, whispering
through sun bleached curtains,
brushing its fingertips over their salty, sand dusted skin,
and dropping into their dreams
the sediment
of days gone by . . .
Of hours squandered in beachside repose
without an ounce of regret;
Of lazy, multilingual conversations,
littered with miscommunications;
enlivened, now and then, by gestures and charades,
and by R's rolled and rounded,
swallowed, bitten,
hocked,
discarded;
Of shadows grown long and proud,
grown impatient with their idle ways, and eventually gone to console the sinking sun,
leaving them in the quiet company of the moon . . .
Leaving them on darkened, metallic glinting shores;
Leaving them afloat, on their backs,
in the midnight waves' languorous embrace;
Leaving them to make their tired way back
to the shadow scattered room they share . . .
Shoes in hand, hand in hand
To the iron bed;
To curl into one another, and cling while they can,
to the chimerical pace of time spent
in unfamiliar cities, with intimate strangers,
ignoring the calls of home. It was her, June, July, and August
in the narrow iron bed.
Bent, bruised knees
and kaleidoscope weeks, folded
inwards
to make room
for one another;
Unhurried breath,
blown across sandpaper pillowcases,
dressed in faded floral prints; and
The occasional ocean breeze, whispering
through sun bleached curtains,
brushing its fingertips over their salty, sand dusted skin,
and dropping into their dreams
the sediment
of days gone by . . .
Of hours squandered in beachside repose
without an ounce of regret;
Of lazy, multilingual conversations,
littered with miscommunications;
enlivened, now and then, by gestures and charades,
and by R's rolled and rounded,
swallowed, bitten,
hocked,
discarded;
Of shadows grown long and proud,
grown impatient with their idle ways, and eventually gone to console the sinking sun,
leaving them in the quiet company of the moon . . .
Leaving them on darkened, metallic glinting shores;
Leaving them afloat, on their backs,
in the midnight waves' languorous embrace;
Leaving them to make their tired way back
to the shadow scattered room they share . . .
Shoes in hand, hand in hand
To the iron bed;
To curl into one another, and cling while they can,
to the chimerical pace of time spent
in unfamiliar cities, with intimate strangers,
ignoring the calls of home.






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SUMMER SLUMBER, by Farrah Celler