You once were given a mandolin
by an auburn-headed young man.
He placed it in our small blue tent,
(its oaky tone & texture).
Strum & conversation
talking, trampled underfoot.
We young read sagas like bedtime
stories, readily self-submerged.
I said – pluck & melt a fragrant love,
douse the glow to flicker.
You punctuate my edges
with words I must inscribe.
A borderland between us streams
like numberless white lemons.
I miss the sound of ukelele,
the smell of lemon oil.
Italian-cut green beans
melt zucchinis from my eyes.
Slender branch of neurons,
go and check yourself for fire.
We once were given a spiral shape,
a way to dance back home.
The beach beyond rests covered
in sugar, it shines and it is home.
Julie Ann lives in Oxford, Mississippi and is an MFA candidate at Ole Miss. She teaches English and edits a poetry journal called The Guidebook. This summer, she spent time in the British Museum memorizing Emily Dickinson poetry.