The Short of It

The 1 o’clock Point of View.

Time I do not have is much
Rather not used-

Swaying on
a big red hammock with swing
ing scarves like marigold, sink
ing into my skin, sinking
into the sun’s beating heart.

The heat that builds up inside
from the screaming, the crying-
the caring-
seeps through my hair like oil

And it leaves a pile of rain-
bow in the dirt. I sleep above it.
Swinging to and fro.

The Noon Point of View.

The sun beat down onto her skin, through the rainbows
of the scarves draped above her, shade her, paint her
Brazilian tan with orange and pink and green.

So the sand ground into her skin, rashed against her
bikini, coating her soft glazed hair, sticking
between her toes.

And her little gold toe-ring with a little green
emerald embedded left a pale line on
her knuckle, she lost it in the ocean and
didn’t think twice.
Wore it as her older sister did, and so did
all of her friends,

like over sized black sunglasses,
or dazing into the sun as
she turned golden.

The scarves still blow in the wind, as they always had,
and always will.
She hid under them.