Jennifer Luckenbill

Out wandering in late afternoon,
leaving our mother snoring in the cave-chill

of condo air, we circled through tree-cut
sunlight towards water like moths

scenting the way. On the dock, we dangled
legs over the edge, the swish of swinging feet

our only words. The summer shower caught
us off guard, our legs bent to the torrent

as we made our way across boards
slick with new-rain and the leftovers

of eviscerated fish. You yanked me onto
someone’s empty yacht by the shoulder, my breath

in rapid gasps, as I watched a spider
crawl too close to my hand. In another minute,

the rain would stop, and we would trickle back,
kicking rocks like passing insults.