Last summer, I ate my allotment
of two strawberry popsicles
in an afternoon’s succession.
I held the plastic molds
under a warm faucet, bracing
orange handles against the heel
of my palm until each time they suddenly
slipped free. I sat on the porch floor
to eat, somehow alone. Sweet
and bright with lime, broad shards
of thin red ice abraded
my tongue, eased by the sluice of spit
and juice. When they were gone, propriety
teetering against a last lingering
treat in the freezer, claimed but uneaten
by a child, I instead leaned against
the white of our farmhouse
and quieted my longings.
Photograph by Maxwell Irwin
Smoky Quartz 