We are wrapped in summer,
falling apart,
distancing ourselves like solar flares, but here
in this bed, with our feet tangled,
we can do no wrong.

Your mother made you a patchwork
quilt, full of holes now, but warm
and safe and I know what home
is when I wrap myself in it, when
you wrap me in your arms.  

I can taste honey on your lips
you swear you can taste the sun on mine
I decorate our worn couch with
our love, wolf girl, they call you
killed a wolf and brought it home
didn’t have the heart to tell them
home was inside you.

We leave coffee mugs on the table,
they stain the wood and booted feet
shake its legs, my brother falls
asleep on the couch and she brushes
her fingers through his hair.
She counts his freckles like she counts
mine and returns him to his love
when she’s done.

Safety has never concerned me
But I’d reconsider if she stayed,
catching may beetles in mason jars
and cutting her brown hair over the sink
we’re wrapped up in summer,
lighting sparklers and kicking up dust,
leaving trails of kisses on each other’s

Your lips are chapped with the heat,
my skin red and sore and we swim
in the lake at the end of the town,
feet brushing against the reeds and
against each other. At night we
sit by the fire and we burn brighter
than the day.  

CAIT POTTER is an emerging artist and writer set on giving voice to the ideas stuck inside their head. Their work focuses on softness and surviving.