see you next summer | Audrey Lai (12)

we held the creek water in our cusped hands,

and the little creatures who lived there

pricked our fingertips and nestled in our hearts.

when we grow too tall we’ll shine a flashlight

and there will lie their tiny corpses,

soon buried in a grave for a child.

we’ll peer into the casket with brand new eyes,

our campfire song on the lips of a funeral choir

accompanied by an organ.

remember when you bruised your knee

and i told you i would make you medicine?

four drops of witch’s blood and a fairy wing,

a sprinkle of pixie dust to taste.

your knotted bracelet unravels

braid fraying from the pool’s chlorine

and when i arrive in my driveway,

i know my backyard potions are only sticks and mud.