preincarnation
The chorus rises and swells as the audience sits in silence, some in awe, some in sleep. The young eyes see the world through a golden microscope and the world seems good to them. In their minds, their voices carry. In their minds, people listen.
There's a bookshelf like I've never seen on the walls of someone else's house. It spells out the words "read" and each letter is its own shelf. Books curve sideways to make up the letters. If I pull out just one book the rest above slide down and continue the pattern, live up to their fates, begin the cycle all over again and I shyly put the book back on top where it can make new friends and rekindle lost relationships.
All I ever want in the summer is a glass of lemonade. Tall, with the sweat on the outside of the pitcher and the lemons sliced, floating, like you’d see in Southern magazine photographs. Yellow like the sun, golden like the color of my youth. Swim in the creek, catch crayfish and chase birds all day, and come home to a mother bringing out freshly made lemonade. When you feel that unwavering August thirst there’s no better joy than that.