Summer Sestina

Duplication was easy; you were a reflection
of the things I wasn’t. You were summer
on a popsicle stick, lifting your body
out of the too-blue water without waiting.
Wrapped in towels and heat and wanting,
you still held out your hand

and I stood dripping next to you. Hand
to hand, loosing sight in the reflection
of light on water, you were wanting
this to be the always summer
where we stood outside of waiting,
where you loved the curves of your body.

I loved the curves of your body,
and my hand never left your hand.
I couldn’t think of waiting,
was stuck in the hazy heat reflection
of the today and yesterday and tomorrow of summer;
I never thought of wanting

more than I had; I didn’t know that wanting
could be held in the heat of my body.
I thought of heat as being part of the summer
that drifted from the palm of your hand—
there wasn’t a moment of reflection
on the possibilities of waiting

for something new to happen, or waiting
until we found what we were wanting.
I watched your reflection
in the mirror, the bare parts of your body
covered in color and your hands
untying the strings that held the summer

together. The heaviness of summer,
the way your shoulders were waiting
breathing above your collarbones where your hands
rested, empty cups of wanting—
I was waiting for my body and your body
to have matching curved reflections

but the reflection that kept me waiting
all through the summer was what kept me wanting
the turn and bend of your body and the soft touch of your hands.