Something about these
Electric, ocean-breezy, air-conditioned California summers is
Too easy and not easy enough.
We might all fly south for the summer,
Where it’s quiet but for crickets and hymn-singing,
To a house with a porch all around,
And a screen door that slams properly not-quite-shut,
And ice cubes that clink in a pitcher of tea—
Brewed, not grown in the sun like a corn stalk—
Sweet like the smell of a snowball bush.
“Are you hot, sugar? It stays cool and dark in Granny’s room,
And you can lie down a while.
Or else get a hat and Grandpa’ll take you down to the cemetery
And tell you about the tombstones.”
(Generations in red East Texas earth.)
“I thought we’d have cantaloupe for dessert this evening;
No sense turning the oven on. These smelled so good at the fruit stand.”
And in my all-electric kitchen I turn on
The oven. Outside it’s a hundred and two,
And I almost bought some cantaloupe at the supermarket,
But didn’t have the heart, here.
Lisa Bolin Hawkins (1982)