I remember drinking wine
til we were silly and sick
on the screened in porch
in the back of your dad’s house.
The old door on rusted hinge
creaking and slamming
in the southern kicks of wind.
You lay your head on my lap
and soak in the strawberry lemonade sky,
sipping the last long day of June
out of your glass.
You become Path and I, Pilgrim.
I close my eyes
and feel your breath on my tongue
and the world in my hands.