Gwendolyn Soper

The Rain in Utah

We used to lay on the hot cement shivering 
after we swam. A quick lick of the concrete 
confirmed it hadn’t changed since
the last time we stuck out our tongues — 
it tasted like scorched Utah sand 
under the branches of the apricot tree. 

Don’t eat the apricots before you swim,
you’ll get cramps! Mom calls
us in for hot dogs and potato chips,
and we peel off running to eat, grabbing towels 
because we only use them for capes. 

One black night the lightening illuminates the pool 
again and again like a glowing blue kidney bean. 
The thunder rattles the plate glass windows—
and my little brother and I—we watch 
from the tv room on our stomachs. We learn 
some things are as good as cartoons.