Calaveras Station 2004 - Independence

Independence

Adrienne Aquino

for Addie Hiura Lawler

She flew me like watermelon seeds
spit from Uncle Mason's lips
on the fourth of that July. Crimson
rose-lined porch where we'd swing
sweet and low, and giddy, girlie, our sun
dresses getting caught in the blowing
breezes, afternoon haze, heavy
mugginess filtering through our lungs, against
our skin, sweating droplets wiped fresh
every time we drew water hose blasts
from cousin Henry in tall, tall grass

frogs croon in evening shade, fireworks
sparkle like diamond sunshine
across a lake's mirror, contrasting the morning

she fell silently alone, calling to and fro
sky when geese fly South, the same
time I called, the lump discovered, the shower,
that same morning, that same
damn morning, her long pause
on the line.

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