BY EMILY UDUWANA
Last Day of Summer
Magenta took my hand
and she pulled me deeper
into the hedges
that guarded
the white columns
of her parents’ suburban hell
and we laid with our hair
spread in halos
over fresh-cut grass,
and we laid in a meeting
of manicured lions
and leafy green poodles
and those skinny pink flamingos
her mother insisted on keeping
in their cul-de-sac front yard,
the yard where we stayed
to see the sun flee on its way
out of Southern California
and where I ran my fingers
over the soft skin
of her inner arms
and asked how she ended up
with a name like Magenta
and where she waved a hand
at those skinny pink flamingos
and where said,
too many vodka sodas,
and where she said,
maybe what they really wanted
was one more lawn ornament.
Sticky Sweet
Your mother brought fresh lemonade
in sparkling crystal glasses
but you dipped a finger in the pitcher
forgotten on a backyard table
and you dangled your nails
over my waiting face,
let sticky sweet droplets fall
on the bridge of my nose,
and you said, she never adds
enough sugar
and you drank deeply
from my cupid’s bow
and from the edges
of my eager mouth
and you said,
that’s much better.
Emily Uduwana is a poet and short fiction author with recent publications in Miracle Monocle, Eclectica Magazine, and the Owen Wister Review. She is currently based in Southern California, where she is pursuing a Ph.D. in history at the University of California, Riverside.