The Rind

The orange soda in the checkout aisle

was the color of sunsets we had at the lake.

I bought it for comfort, I bought it to smile,

remembering the dock and the ripples we'd make.

But the sugar tastes metallic, like copper or blood.

I remember the damp plywood smell of the floor,

and the way the shore turned into stinking, black mud

when the water receded away from the door.

There was a sunfish that floated right by the stairs,

its eye was a milky, translucent white orb.

We pretended we didn't have any real cares,

but the smell was a thing we couldn't absorb.

The dock was all splinters and things that were dying.

We drank until we were sick in the weeds.

I don’t know why I spend so much energy trying

to find a good fruit in a handful of seeds.