Federica Santini
GONE
Small brown foot, unconcerned and tough
in its rubber slip-on, unknown symbol, faded
asphalt steaming, the few trees vibrate in the heat
as we run in freedom, hiding in a wild game of light
and the known shadow under the half-lowered shutter
I smell old cigarettes and the sweet, sickly coyness
of the ice cream fridge stocked to the top,
mixed with chalk from the upended pool game
The unwanted hand on my chest startles,
a foreign object detached as the last summer
of childhood melts into shame unknown