by Sara Levy

Slap of Start Rites on a warm pavement.
Two streets away, ‘Greensleeves’ on a tinny loop.
Hand-smocked cotton dresses and a summer
that slid through our fingers like a satin hair ribbon.
Butterflies in the old quarry,
the perfumed blackberry pathways
that scratched and snagged bare legs,
twisting down to the flooded pit.
Pass me a longer stick, inching out to reach and
hook it clear of the water,
land it with a thud at my ankle-socked feet.
A sack, tied shut.
Let’s not open it, I should have said.
Let’s not look inside.