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Summer Months
by Melissa Sawatsky
In July we camp up and down the coast
riding in the rusty, yellow Ford.
Sand and soil wedged in the seats,
the floor sticky with spilt juice
wet grass and petals.
Our bumper sticker matter-of-factly states:
One nuclear bomb can ruin your whole day.
My mother wears
beads, feathers and flowered skirts
a flow of fabric
that I reach for, hang onto
when her body strays away.
All I know of womanhood
is the blanket of her long, thick hair
her bare breasts as she bathes,
the bathroom door always left open.
In August
the Ford delivers us to Wreck Beach.
My sister and I stare, wide-eyed
at the buffet of bodies.
My mother laughs
they’re not naked, these people are nude.
My parents proceed to undress
and I lie in my bathing suit
disgusted fascinated
the leathery droop of breasts,
fleshy bells clanging between
the legs of middle-aged men.
I peek under my swimsuit
at a body that has not yet formed.
Author Bio
Melissa Sawatsky (TWS 2006) is currently at work on her first collection of poetry, as well as collaborating on a screenplay. Her poetry has appeared in Rhubarb Magazine and emerge (The Writer’s Studio Anthology 2006). She also co-wrote and published a chapbook entitled, Berlin.
