in the South

the summer sun

becomes a blade

drawn flat down the skin

curiously seductive

in its sting

in its bright torture

and endured long enough

the sensation fuses nerve endings

dulling the pinprick burn

into a warm pressure

evenly distributed

across the belly

the shoulders

the nose the cheeks

the thigh tops

but any good Southern girl will tell you

the bite of the sun

dull or otherwise

is not a stagnant thing

it moves

in waves

in strokes

it fingerwalks the dips

and valleys the arcs

the tender untouched

patches of skin

the covered whispered-of places

in ways that bring a blush

to the already crimsoning.

on a June day in Macon

on a slope of green

in my own backyard

at the age of 14

the sun became

my first lover

and none have

been like her

ever since.