Stroked

The memories are heavy,

childhood sun stroke summer day memories.

Burning beach sand and blacktop

are as much a part of me as the palms of my hands.

On dog days, I live in the shade.

That is where the truth starts with me.

Hazy lemonade eyelids and

Slippery blistered swatches of skin,

simmer under pooled and salty sweat.

This is my mind, nothing but my mind.

But what could I know about that?

What does a mind’s eye see?

Not a brain,

and I see no map of me.

On bad days, I avoid the noon day sun.

That is where the truth ends with me.

The weight of it, is in this memory:

Veering my bike into the car,

scraping across the hot summer asphalt

floating on that black acrid smell.

At night, I breath in the cool air.

This is where the truth is.

Published in Spectrum Literary Journal December 2019 Vol. 62

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