Hannah Karpinski

NOTHING COMES CLOSE

that summer exploded onto our lives
in a shower of colour and flesh

slim limbs in all directions, we moved
like we could lap the season twice

every day we put on our little tops
turned sunward like lizards and stretched—

our four long girl legs carried us across
the city, where men walked into traffic

as we passed. together we had so much
hair, and all these teeth

they said we couldn’t look more gorgeous
unless laid out on the floor. sun drunk and tumbling

down the sidewalk, we were always
on our way elsewhere—only pausing

to squat in a bush or reach up
for mulberries, purpling our fingers

and sucking the pulp off. daylight
threw itself on us, splaying across

the floor to the horizon. cicadas screamed
in every tree. you are every memory

backlit by lilac, iris, aster, there you are
grabbing my arm and throwing your head

back in laughter, and while I don’t get
your jokes they are never the point

I’d give my best tooth to go home with you
once more through the stomach dark

night, where nothing can touch us, where
we are the thing that lurks