Summer Poem

It is sand. 
Pines. 
Sand. 
Artillery. 
Pines. 
Sand. 
Car
dealerships for miles.

I am 40. 

I remember standing on the edge of the Atlantic,
New Year’s Eve 1999.
I was 14, soon to be 15,
and as midnight struck
I remember saying,
“That’s it.”

I don’t know what I meant.

I am full of ghosts.
I am writing a stage play.
I am trying to save a non-profit. 
I am a recovering _____________.
I am running. 
I am 30 pounds lighter now
than at this time last year.

One of my students has been redeployed
to a “more austere location” and said he might
fall behind on his work, the “Middle East”
still a singular place in the American imagination.

One of my students just experienced a miscarriage. 
One of my students’ just picked her daughter up from the psych ward.
One of my students is a Pentecostal who is determined to avoid growing. 

Over half of my students consistently turn in AI-generated work, 
and I am told to “grade on the merits.”

Everyday the city cooks and cooks
and at night explodes in thunder,
which could be mistaken
for artillery.