Alburg, '94

It's that smell of dead fish

mixed with wet dog and fried eggs

swirling on the crest of a pitiful wave

in the wake of a 1980s Boston Whaler

put in the water only yesterday

in anticipation of a summer made up of whole days

spent hunting for sea glass

and tending to your pet turtle in its cage

made of a giant blue buoy, cut open at the top

lined with moss and filled with rocks.

And your brother crouches

on the dock, his fishing pole in hand

patiently waiting for a bite.

And your sister suns herself

in the hammock, every now and then

demanding that you bring her a soda or

rub sunblock on her back.

And the rip of the curses inside

cuts between your mother and father and stings

your ears as it seeps through

the cracks of the jagged window in the front door

that you accidentally smashed

with your whiffle-ball bat

on your way out to the neighborhood game

under the lights

at the pump house last night.

It's that taste of sweet blood in your mouth

when you fall

for the nineteenth time

teaching yourself

how to ride a bike

on the dirt road leading

toward and away

from it all.