We used to lay on the hot cement shivering
after we swam. A quick lick of the concrete
confirmed it hadn’t changed since
the last time we stuck out our tongues —
it tasted like scorched Utah sand
under the branches of the apricot tree.
Don’t eat the apricots before you swim,
you’ll get cramps! Mom calls
us in for hot dogs and potato chips,
and we peel off running to eat, grabbing towels
because we only use them for capes.
One black night the lightening illuminates the pool
again and again like a glowing blue kidney bean.
The thunder rattles the plate glass windows—
and my little brother and I—we watch
from the tv room on our stomachs. We learn
some things are as good as cartoons.
“The Rain in Utah” by Gwendolyn Soper