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Clothesline
She liked to sit in the backyard
And watch the neighbor's laundry
Swing on the clothesline, crisp pale
Blue button-downs of the husband
Wrinkling in the half-wind, Summer
Sighing across the silky surface of
The twisting sundress, first one way,
Then the other, like soft hips
Swinging, one way, then the
Other, and when they were just
Washed and still wet they would
Flap and flick beads into the grass
That would flash fast down like
Little silver raindrops, one way,
Then the other.
—Ariel Miller
Bluebells
the fat rope of tea
from the pot
to my mug
and the icicles all in a row
bulbs sit on the windowsill
waiting for spring
and I find an envelope
with pressed bluebells
from that day
you tucked them behind my ear
and ran your fingers through my hair
and when I got home
I pressed them in a dusty cookbook
letting them hold their fragile beauty longer
than the other sprigs it grew with
lucky them
I saved them
so I wouldn't forget
that you could be sweet
when you wanted
and even now they still haven't lost their scent
—Indigo Erlenborn
She
sometimes she makes me want to tense the tendons on my neck and send my head smashing into my keyboard and maybe my skin and bones would, as they snapped and fractured, hit just the right keys and type a jumbled ode to beauty and wealth, forgotten forever when the circuits spark and smoke and the little copper nodes on the hard drive dig into my eyebrow and its brittle white plastic shell snaps and splinters
—Charles C. Siler
More Summer
Oh summer is the
Damp fold of
My
Thin cotton skirt
Pressed
Between
Bleached bare
Legs
Salt powdered
Thick white
Flour
Over cherry-pie
Cheekbones
And the Wind's
Lank fingers
Dripping cold
Whitecap kisses
Down
My
Slick scalp
And along each
Hard
Peach-pit
Vertebra
—Claire Weaver-Zeman
Year of the Dragon
The ginger on your plate smelled feebly of the rain last summer when
your parents visited weekly with smiles on their faces showing the kind of solidarity
even you dared to expect during this
roughest of times—
but they couldn't convince you of your
right to worth and you
never wandered back to that light down
by the river
where all the magic happened before you swallowed the bullet and slit your noose
and you fell out of love with life
in all honesty, everything died with your
first drops of blood kissing
linoleum, staining your heartstrings and straining the surface of water left
in everyone's chest after a meal with
that bitch—guilt
and while the ginger between the delicate rows of fish
stank of the bygone
songs, the lyrics like rotting carcasses
with just enough light left
in the eyes to make you believe for even
a minute
that there is any sweet melancholy left,
the wasabi
cleansed the air with the odor of iodine
and the tea smelled like a gunshot
—Miriam Himelstein
©2016 The Young Authors Foundation, Inc., d/b/a/ Teen Ink. All rights reserved. Reprinted from Leave This Song Behind: Teen Poetry at Its Best. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the publisher. Publisher: Health Communications, Inc., 3201 SW 15th Street, Deerfield Beach, FL 33442.
