how the summers come, how the years go: 

in March, the first signs of 

Spring arrive in the clinking 

of bowls to table at dinner time 

while the world outside is on fire. Don’t look, because sky is oranger 

than I’ve ever seen. The day is not yet ending 

but I’m already thinking 

of all the glimpses I might have of you tomorrow. It’s Spring — 

so every night I insist on forgetting to bring 

a jacket; I’ll willingly punish myself with 

anticipation and the chilly absence of better months. in May, 

everyday it rains so I am patient! We are closer! 

I let it all thunder down on me because I know 

in time June will come, my brother will be one year older, and he’ll 

blow out the candles, like

(Inhale, Exhale, 

Poof.) 

My mom and dad who never drink 

will pour out four little glasses of champagne. And finally, 

we can go in shorts to the night market, cash and coins 

stuffed in our back pockets. Promise we’ll eat everything 

fried, and anything sweet. it’s July 

now, is it me or this time my mother looks younger? She doesn’t 

want anything except a card, this year I’ve lost track of her 

age. Her favorite color will always be yellow, and in some timeline

she remains thirty-six, my arms too short to wrap 

all the way around her belly. August; 

this is my favorite month. It’s the cicada sounds, 

the gritty dirt between my toes.

“Summer girl,” he says in August, making me 

golden, as if that was my name. Indeed, 

what is “Charlotte” to “Summer girl”,

when he’s the one saying it, 

brown eyes thawing me in.