Apricots at High Summer.

By Amy Kaplan

I take the basket from you. I wonder: how long will you be here to touch, to kiss?

The delta breeze blows through the yard. You pick apricots.

I wonder: how will my life be when I have left?

The evening in summer right before the sky turns black once and for all, fills me with anticipation, pleasure. Here, I am.

Taking the basket of apricots from you, the breeze, warm, then cool, filled with promise of some sort, I wonder: is this love, is it?

Mostly, I want you to know: I am here or, do I want you to know: I was here? I was here.