Sunburnt and Sane
I see my dad everywhere,
but mostly in pine trees,
specifically--
the ones pierced by
lemonade sunsets in midsummer,
the ones that paint asphalt
in ripples like the wake
on the Ohio River,
and then I'm in the boat
five again,
eating Doritos and drinking RC cola,
arranging rubber worms
by color in tackle boxes,
sandpaper carpet prickling my thigh,
one-piece swimsuit dragging
across lobster red skin.
Life is good here,
as he casts another line,
his hands brown, wrapped around the reel.
He gets a bite,
sets the hook with a smile,
and then it's over,
a memory washed away with the current.
It's all just dappled sunlight on patchy roads,
and I'm thirty-three,
longing to be sunburnt and sane.
Breanna Leslie is a poet and author from West Virginia. Her work has been featured in Motherscope Magazine, For Women Who Roar, The Raven Review, Gypsophila Magazine, and Our Galaxy Publishing's Venus anthology. She has also penned two fiction novels.