Lemonade Night

        She hops back on the porch swing
        with a glass of lemonade, guzzling

her tongue monstrous through glass.
        I tell her of a dream a had tonight, and last

where I sat in a blank room on a rigid chair
        as she spun cartwheels around me, her hair

whipping my face while I screamed.
        I ask her if she might know what it means.

        In the kitchen she slices lemons, measures
        equal amounts of sugar and water

then, with her sleeve rolled half-way up
        she stirs more lemonade and pours a cup.

        I think of something, light a cigarette
        and start to tell her, but forget

when morning stiffly mans it broom
        tidies up the stars, the moon.

        We go upstairs, make love, come back. She says,
        "More lemonade?"-- her only words all day.

        But that's okay.