Dreaming of Water on These Hot Sunny Days

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Dreaming of Water on These Hot Sunny Days

Heat radiates

the illusion of water

over the asphalt,

hazy lines lazily diminishing

the horizon. My sister and I

perch under a tree

with the sun

casting fiery jigsaw patterns

through the leaves,

making us long

for the aquamarine cool

of our neighbor’s

pool. A trickle of sweat slides

from between my breasts down

across my belly. If my body

is a mountain,

this crooked curve of sweat is the river,

and maybe if I lie

quite still, let seconds become epochs,

it’ll carve valleys in my flesh, it’ll shape

canyons in my bones.

Grass pricks my skin, and I

itch, as I watch my sister sketch

an image of a mermaid

riding the back of seahorse,

and I wonder

if I should tell her just how small

seahorses are, only inches long,

really, too small

for mermaids to play cowboy

in the deep, unless they


are miniscule, tiny fish people,

no bigger than pixies,

which would explain

why they are so hard to find,

because people don’t look

according to proper

proportions. But mostly,

I wish I was in the ocean

myself, diving through the crescent curl

of a wave, following

the undertow

down, down

into the dark chill, where

the push-pull

of tides holds seaweed in sway

and where the sun’s insistence

looses its power against

the great weight

of the depths,

light little more than a ripple,

a play of undulating lines

on the surface

so far above.


Note: This poem was written in response to the prompt, "Dreaming of water on these hot sunny days," from @MyztikalTearz, which also happened to be the perfect title.

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