Summer, 2002 by Meghan L. Bucknell Third Place Poetry Award Sing saccharine sweet through me courting my ankles to your lap. A charcoal future of radicals who easily smudge and burn the easy bridge— to escape. Fuck it if it made our mothers nervous, brandy in the egg nog, your left arm and my right, orange badges of old orchards holding dreams where kids believe— in Santa. Improvised munitions sit zealous and unassembled. Somewhere down by my river swing washing away Happy Birthday wishes to America— the doomed. The whole world is the back of a knee unthought-of until brushed up against. Place this on the treetop holding hope until— the 26th. theMeadow 53
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