Savannah Skinner


After thunderstorm; we parked to watch

the sunset pink. It smelled of lilacs,

clouds, factory steam from across town:

one-way streets somewhere beneath.

Smack mosquito bites with an open palm

to stop the swelling—behind his ear,

a salt lick. Sweat, two-day-old shampoo.

I named trees after his lips; my fear of them.

My shivered legs, damp with déjà vu:

kissing in this place before, the sunset

more orange, cheekbones still inside his skin.

His hands more or less the same, maybe

new scars on fingers. They spoke like bees;

with dancing. I am graceless—still digging

the same freckle out of my palm. We rubbed

our shoulder blades together to hear them

hum like glass-wings. Valley sounds; spring

peepers, sirens heading somewhere south.

<< 1 poem by Christian Wessels

Savannah Skinner is a senior at SUNY Geneseo. She has answered this question multiple times, and is accruing a lot of fictional best friends. She’d probably choose someone who doesn’t seem like the jealous type. Charlie Bucket, perhaps, due to his generosity and his lifetime supply of Wonka candy.