Aqua’s nothing like blue ribbon jam.
Bluejay, blue cheese, bluebell, Blue Cross
nothing like them.
Sky and sea in a country
I’ve never seen.
Cool, wet, inviting.
His aqua Chevy,
my chino skirt pegged tight
hiked up while I lie on my back
in the back seat. Radio, Rocking alive
with Jim Barone from the Motor City.”
Both of us hearing a cicada’s whine
like hot wind through high wire.
His work pants are blue-black.
Blue racer, blue baby, bruise I forget.
Sometimes when I’m at the ironing board, T.V. off,
I believe I hear a cicada in August,
I’m sleeping alive
under a field of bloodroot and wild melon.