in record, breath short and thick, I
drift on the sun-warmed water.

My mother plucks idly at her ukulele.

               You and me, against the world,

I hum absently, barely following
Crooning so slow and deep
The water ripples around my throat
Lapping like whalesong across the surface.

               It’s you and me, against the world

The clouds are pink and fluffy,
Orange sherbet and expired milk
Still and slow and barely breathing.

My voice whistles and purrs,
drawing swooping birds with
wings that point like arrows.
Swirling above in tight loops;
drift in and out of my ears:

               You and me, against the world,

The neighbors clatter and crash,
crowding like swarming moths
and giggling like schoolgirls;
A hazy distant white noise that
floats on the summer vapors.

               It’s you and me, against the world,

If I shut my eyes I don’t exist
And when I open them the pink is gone.

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