Emma S.

July

Breakfast is sausage and eggs, made
in house. The waiter has tattoos, sailors

turn towards your face. We are on the beach.
We are in the surf. We are mermaids

but only every other Monday. Potatoes
and cupcakes too. We drink rosé until our mouths

open up and the trees recede. They are sharp
exclamation points clinging to the side of the car

and dresses are what make the days change
on screen. I am in red, in blue, in gingham

though we hardly ever get lost. You are
a time machine and need no help and so

we lose time easily. Days even. Weeks
pass and our bellies ask for more

leaves in our tea. On the bottom of the glass
there are messages and we read, no translation

Yes! The ocean! We jump, shoes in hand,
conscious of the cold and the seaweed

which has wrapped our hands so tight.