​The spring Table Rock caught fire
the smoke I never saw
woke me as gently
as the smell of a cooling pie.
The air was as sweet as green gingham dresses
strung in the high trees, accenting the white
Bank of America skyscraper. The now
grapefruit-colored sky fragrant
from the afternoons so blistering they melted
your constitution into hot pudding. We didn’t
even tuck our socks into
our sneakers before we waded
into the river. This is also how we practiced
hating each other. Just a couple times
a year. We dipped our toes into bitterness
until we took a breath dense enough to eat.
When we felt our goodness turn in
like the prongs of a fork, we slid back out.
The water held no shape of us at all.
Drying on the riverbank, we
swallowed mouthfuls of sweet.
We did not consider the aftertaste;
the caramelizing smell of an almost-home,
an almost-future, burning deep beyond the ground.