The body is a delicate thing especially when lit up, exposed
by X-rays, CT scans, and what was once minute or never

even felt can been seen and read by those who know exactly
the right language: biopsy, carcinoma, in situ. They draw

blue stars or paint initials before they measure, cut, take
a crescent, suture in dark thread, a thin purple line which time

eventually fades, but remnants remain: a face in profile, a river
winding, the Blue Ridge.                                             

                                               We poke pinholes in a box, slice

tinfoil, the moon hides the sun and darkness comes. We shield
our eyes, imagine sails, orange slices, sheets on a line, scythes,

caterpillars on milkweed, but the body is a delicate thing. Closing
first one eye and then the other cannot erase wounds or alter

memory. Words roll on the tongue in the search of a certain
eclipse. We can wait years for the little space of sky clouds uncover.

Summer Hardinge

Summer’s poetry reflects her way of seeing, influenced by growing up in rural VA, years of teaching high school English and creative writing, traveling, and digging in her MD garden. Writing poetry allows the wrestling with what she finds curious, beautiful, or discomfiting. Summer is a certified Amherst Writers and Artists facilitator and leads workshops in MD, VA, and southern France.