Sarah A. Etlinger
Entering (the world again)
The Mexican food truck is a darker blue this year
and festooned with icicle lights, because it’s festive,
and this is a festive occasion. So far, three black dogs
and two puppies, four kids screaming, and two red wagons.
The playground is an amoeba of children and motion.
Parents pitch lawn tents and camping chairs
and on the side of the hill, squares of heirloom quilts,
old blankets, coolers, and more beer.
There are screams and cicadas, the skid of scooter tires,
and the gulp-zap! of tennis balls on the courts across the street.
Beyond, the beer tent and beyond that the bandshell
and beyond that the jagged tree tops crest the sky,
holding vigil.
When the band starts its first chords, dusk does too,
and the whole mess of everything we are seems to shimmer and stop,
shimmer and stop—like old home movies with bright and blurry light.
We are here, now. We do not know what we want
except to be here, but we are here and it is July
and we are ready.
And when a plane flies overhead,
it can probably see us too, all of us here, under this patch of the sun,
before it lands, before its passengers pour out and enter the world again.
and festooned with icicle lights, because it’s festive,
and this is a festive occasion. So far, three black dogs
and two puppies, four kids screaming, and two red wagons.
The playground is an amoeba of children and motion.
Parents pitch lawn tents and camping chairs
and on the side of the hill, squares of heirloom quilts,
old blankets, coolers, and more beer.
There are screams and cicadas, the skid of scooter tires,
and the gulp-zap! of tennis balls on the courts across the street.
Beyond, the beer tent and beyond that the bandshell
and beyond that the jagged tree tops crest the sky,
holding vigil.
When the band starts its first chords, dusk does too,
and the whole mess of everything we are seems to shimmer and stop,
shimmer and stop—like old home movies with bright and blurry light.
We are here, now. We do not know what we want
except to be here, but we are here and it is July
and we are ready.
And when a plane flies overhead,
it can probably see us too, all of us here, under this patch of the sun,
before it lands, before its passengers pour out and enter the world again.
Biography
Sarah A. Etlinger (she/her) is an English professor who lives in Milwaukee, WI, with her family. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she is also the author of 3 books, the most recent of which—The Weather Gods—is forthcoming from Fernwood Press. Sarah’s work has appeared in Pank!, Spry Lit, Eunoia Review, and many others. Her interests include baking, cooking, traveling, and spending time by Lake Michigan with her family. Find her at www.sarahetlinger.com or on Twitter at @drsaephd.
