Summer by Mary Miller

We grill chicken, com, sweet potatoes. There are only two of us but we cook for many more. You cut your toenails, drink ice water, eat popsicles. I smoke cigarettes. The mosquitoes swarm. Marriage, I say: a death sentence. And then Beck comes on the XM Radio. You squeeze my arm and I ask if you want to have sex later and you say yes. You made a promise to God and everyone else, I used to say, before. But now I don't mention God. And I don't mention everyone else because they're not here. It's just the two of us, in this house, and the dog in the backyard, awaiting our scraps.

@ 2007 - Miller

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