CLAUDIA CORTESE

Summer Evening

Three girls in flip-flops pop gum and giggle past the pastry shop
a young man is closing an hour early because he wants to wash off

the smell of fried dough before stepping into the eucalyptus night.
A car stereo shakes the windows and for once the woman in 1B

doesn't mind because her black spaghetti strap dress is on the floor
next to the crab cactus he bought for her. From my window, I watch

the night nail up a few stars, their light thin and brassy. The air inside
thick as fur, a moist muscle, so I'm going to the 7-11 to get that five buck

Riesling and calling you up to make an offer: wine, porch, shorts short
as they come, and a Madonna mixed tape. Tonight, we won't hear

those grief-driven streets rattling inside us.