Nebraska Sun, make me a desert,

cracked and dry, caked with salt flats

I produce from dried lakes –

my armpits, my neck, my back,

between and below my thighs.

Let my body burn like a scraped knee,

like shifting sand,

aching when I move.

I will raise eyebrows into dunes,

creating drifts on my forehead,

and feel sandstorms.

 

Nebraska Sun, make me a kitchen.

Let my skin blend sweat and sunscreen,

Aloe Vera and dirt like a mixing bowl.

My fingers will whisk 

sticky melted cherry popsicle,

thick as condensed milk.

Crack an egg on my stove hair,

watch it fizzle and pop,

streaming in liquid, half-baked chunks.

Be reflected in the broken yolk,

A splattered sundrop.

 

Nebraska Sun, make me a pickup

at a stop light. Stall me in summer,

at interim between destinations,

facing an intersection.

Fill me with old receipts and

cracked U-Stop cups and soda spills,

indifferent to messiness.

Let me radio BeeGees and Monkees

with windows open.

I will mark my road with gasoline

like grass-stained jeans.