The Summer I Didn’t – Again

Jesse Doiron

July 3, 2021

Show me the summer you tucked away 

beneath your dress, when we undressed 

in the back of my car and you said you loved me,

before I did, and then, because you did – I didn’t.

We talked inside each other, with open mouths, 

and touched our tongues together, wet together, 

with words that really were not words but sounds 

that meant about as much as mouths could say.

And you said you loved me – again and again and

again – when I was trying to say the same thing –

again and again and again – but never did because 

you did, with lipstick-covered lips that covered 

every word I almost said but stopped just short of. 

Then we did it in the back of my car, completely

naked, again and again, on the back seat, in the dark.

The windows rolled up and the night rolled down.

And your dress tucked away somewhere beneath

the dark-hot summer sky. I remember now –

againandagainandagain – when I didn’t.

Jesse Doiron teaches in a Texas state prison. Maximum security. Beaumont. Summer. Enough said.