By Tricia McCallum
The sun was hotter.
You can tell.
Look at us squinting against it in photos then.
Everything washed out by the glare,
all detail surrendered.
we could be anybody.
The gardens, look, they're parched.
It hurt to walk on the grass.
We lay in scorched backyards
slathering butter on our chests,
chain-smoking, eating fluorescent cheesies,
swilling bright red soda.
Everyone burned raw.
And we knew
nothing could go wrong.
Our lives lay ahead of us.
Men were above us,
landing on the moon.
This poem is reprinted from The Music of Leaving (Demeter Press, 2014). It was first published at Goodreads.com as the winner of their December 2011 poetry contest.
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