(prompted by the word “Sit” from Beth Kempton’s tiny summer poem series)

If you sit there,

Close to her,

Know that her chest will flutter

Like diaphanous lace,

As effervescent heat rises in her heart-space,

And a flush of coral sweeps across her cheeks.

Yet she will remain as

Tongue-tied as the schoolgirl

You walked home, long ago, under a bicentennial moon.