Scorch
Summer sun burns down:
clothes feel too heavy for comfort. The
air tastes humid,
breezes brushing wet over skin.
You’d scorch from the sun
alone, feel your skin going
pink, then later stiff
with a burn.
You’d feel the pink.
And with him: you scorch
under his gaze,
the embodiment of what
want looks like.
It’d encompass you.
Sweep over you, same way
you feel the heat of a thermos-brewed
tea blazing down your
morning-dry throat.
(before too long, you pray for winter)
Summer sun burns down:
clothes feel too heavy for comfort. The
air tastes humid,
breezes brushing wet over skin.
You’d scorch from the sun
alone, feel your skin going
pink, then later stiff
with a burn.
You’d feel the pink.
And with him: you scorch
under his gaze,
the embodiment of what
want looks like.
It’d encompass you.
Sweep over you, same way
you feel the heat of a thermos-brewed
tea blazing down your
morning-dry throat.
(before too long, you pray for winter)
Sarah Little is a sometimes-poet who scribbles when she remembers and gets tetchy when she goes too long without writing. Her work has appeared in L’Éphémère Review, Alien Pub, and Milk + Beans, among others. Her first poetry micro-chapbook, Snapshots, was published with Broken Sleep Books in July 2019.