Off Season

it is
smack dab in the pit of august,
and the sky is caught between shades of golden honey
and spoiled mayonnaise.

we careen into each other
like two hornets circling the same sticky red oasis of melted popsicle,
flushed limbs meeting with dull pleather thwacks in play/fight,
the sunburns on our shoulders splitting and peeling, sending hot cold shivers down our backs.

you say: getcher hair outta yer face
and paw drunkenly at the front of my shirt
until i submit to your grass-stained kiss.
our mouths together stink like ketchup but taste like blood.
we pause to wipe slobber and suck in big gulps of sweaty air,
feeling warm and silly and just a little bit nauseous.

—By Emma Kelly