by Brooke Bovee

Find a way up north. Go west
on 10, right on South Forest after Idlewild,
then left. You’ll know when. If you reach 40
-th, you’ve gone too far. Go back.

Scrounge $6 from the crew; clip the trust
-based payment to the post. Set up
the tarp first. If it’s not raining
already, it will be soon. K, J, and D already

found firewood, piled it by the pit.
Pop the pinchy table legs in place.
Circle the coolers around,
fuel for a round of euchre

after a round of hacky sack, pass it
around. Play that new Sublime.
So sad about Bradley, just like Janis.
Summertime, and the livin’s mmm

 

————–the livin

——-child

———-sand-scented

—————tans

——————take the

———————tip

——————take from

me

————-easy

—————-smoke

———–lord

the sky

—————crown-shy

——————-canopy

————————time is

———————–thick

————————rise veil

——————————songrise

————————–tip

——————-jump fish

——-rise up sing

—————–dance      harder

————————– rhythm

——–lookin      good

———–honey

—————wingspread

———————lovinspread

——————————-all over

—————————–it gets

—————————–hard

——————————- -er

Take the jug to the dock, howl out
fear of 27, the end in ten.

T lost and found
his glasses in that lake.

Go back. Lose, find, rise, see.

If you’ve reached 40,
scoop a fucking fistful of pine
needles to scatter in the wake.

Brooke Bovee grew up in Michigan and pursued higher education in Colorado, California, Michigan, and Florida. Her poetry has appeared in SWWIM Every Day, Exsolutas Press, and The Quarter(ly) Journal, among others. She lives in Miami, where she teaches composition and literature at Miami Dade College.