My thoughts are drifting lately. And when they drift, I imagine sitting under an umbrella, beachside with a cold frozen drink in my hand. Possibly a Mai Tai or maybe a Mango Daiquiri or perhaps a Margarita or the ever-popular Pina Colada. All yum! I actually have frozen drinks all year round. Most mornings I make a protein drink with crushed ice for breakfast so I am not in any way lacking in frozen drinks in my life. But that is not quite the same. There is something so wonderfully vacation-like about having a frozen drink in hand. Call it a smoothie or add alcohol and call it a party—anyway you look at it, a frozen drink creates a magical moment.
By Lee Ann Roripaugh
I always forget the name,
even though it was the flower
loved best. They came in pairs—sleek,
heads, the clockwork machinery
of their blurred wings
thrumming swift, menacing engines.
They slipped their beaks.
as if they were swizzle sticks, deep
into the blue
throat of delphinium and sucked
dry the nectar-
chilled hearts like goblets full of sweet,
I liked to sit on the back porch
in the evenings,
watching them and eating Spanish
each nut between thumb and forefinger
to rub away
the red salty skin like brittle
until the meat emerged gleaming,
yellow like old
ivory, smooth as polished bone.
And late August,
after exclamations of gold
and bitter, the caragana
trees let down their
beans to ripen, dry, and rupture—
at first there was
the soft drum of popcorn, slick with oil,
where in between seed, heat, and cloud.
Then sharp cracks like cap
gun or diminutive fireworks,
peas catapulting skyward like
Sometimes a meadowlark would lace
the night air with
its elaborate melody,
rippling and sleek
as a black satin ribbon. Some-
times there would be
a falling star. And because
this happened in
Wyoming, and because this was
my parents’ house,
and because I’m never happy
at any time, I always wished
that I was some-
where, anywhere else, but here.