Sophie Laing
Cooling Off When You Live in the Country
We’re carefree teens, when summer comes
around. New drivers racing to the next person’s house
after the last person’s parents had their fill of us.
That meant going to K’s, which meant going over
the Roe Jan kill, the mighty, meandering creek
on the outskirts of town. K and I say we almost died
one winter, trying to cross it. It was worth a lot of love,
between us, that near-death experience.
Whenever we drove over the meager bridge, someone in the car
would always yell out, as if the currents were moving
the words through their mouths: you can’t swim
in the Roe Jan anymore! Didn’t you hear?
Someone threw a TV into the water, and it landed
straight up so the antenna could slice you right
open. The thrill of speeding around country corners
was fear enough for us, so we’d just talk a big game
about how we would cannonball into that creek whenever,
but we were too cool, we had better things to do.
Recently, back home in the heat of the summer, I’m thinking
about how the currents have probably swept away the TV by now,
but even so I stick to running, taking a cold shower after.
But today, running past the school bus garage,
I slow down. There are a few workmen out, ones I’m sure
have worked there since we were racing
past the Roe Jan. They’ve probably been there
since no one had ever met a gay middle schooler,
since no one worried about global warming,
since it was more certain
we would all get out of this town alive. But anyway,
booming from the old pokey-antenna radio
that they’re gathered around, is the president’s voice.
He’s delivering a speech, if you can call it that,
but really he’s just yelling and stumbling into provocation.
They’re playing it in celebration of this country,
probably of this town, too. They’re having a good time,
slapping each other on the back like good country-men do
when they’ve known each other their whole lives.
I’m not feeling their thrill of small-town summer friendship,
not remembering I can just leave if I want to. Instead,
I feel as if the currents are moving words through my mind,
trying to convince me to run into the garage,
and grab that little radio.
Here’s what I’m being told:
chuck it right into the Roe Jan kill
and the antenna will land straight up.
Then, if you’re lucky, you can watch the men
jump right in after it.
around. New drivers racing to the next person’s house
after the last person’s parents had their fill of us.
That meant going to K’s, which meant going over
the Roe Jan kill, the mighty, meandering creek
on the outskirts of town. K and I say we almost died
one winter, trying to cross it. It was worth a lot of love,
between us, that near-death experience.
Whenever we drove over the meager bridge, someone in the car
would always yell out, as if the currents were moving
the words through their mouths: you can’t swim
in the Roe Jan anymore! Didn’t you hear?
Someone threw a TV into the water, and it landed
straight up so the antenna could slice you right
open. The thrill of speeding around country corners
was fear enough for us, so we’d just talk a big game
about how we would cannonball into that creek whenever,
but we were too cool, we had better things to do.
Recently, back home in the heat of the summer, I’m thinking
about how the currents have probably swept away the TV by now,
but even so I stick to running, taking a cold shower after.
But today, running past the school bus garage,
I slow down. There are a few workmen out, ones I’m sure
have worked there since we were racing
past the Roe Jan. They’ve probably been there
since no one had ever met a gay middle schooler,
since no one worried about global warming,
since it was more certain
we would all get out of this town alive. But anyway,
booming from the old pokey-antenna radio
that they’re gathered around, is the president’s voice.
He’s delivering a speech, if you can call it that,
but really he’s just yelling and stumbling into provocation.
They’re playing it in celebration of this country,
probably of this town, too. They’re having a good time,
slapping each other on the back like good country-men do
when they’ve known each other their whole lives.
I’m not feeling their thrill of small-town summer friendship,
not remembering I can just leave if I want to. Instead,
I feel as if the currents are moving words through my mind,
trying to convince me to run into the garage,
and grab that little radio.
Here’s what I’m being told:
chuck it right into the Roe Jan kill
and the antenna will land straight up.
Then, if you’re lucky, you can watch the men
jump right in after it.
Biography
Sophie Laing has been writing poetry for a few years now. When she’s not writing or reading, Sophie also takes on amateur sewing projects and makes her way through law school. Her work has also appeared in Shards, and you can find her on Twitter @sophalinalaing.
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