Late August Sugar By Dana Kaufman

The dry end of summer, the county fair,
where I paraded around with a plain vanilla cone melting in my fist.
I wore short shorts, I thought I was Daisy Duke,
catching the horny eyes of the boys in the hog stables.

I told one of them to shimmy up the oak outside my window around eleven and was home before curfew, in time to wash dust-caked cotton candy from my cheeks.
When Mom came to say good night, I was absorbed in syndicated eighties sitcoms,
the asexual, naive girl she raised to wait until marriage.

My window squealed at moist midnight,
Tobacco-stained fingers at my zipper, hot sausage tongue seared my soft inner lip as
I tossed my shoulders back like an underdeveloped Naomi Harper in his hillbilly hands.
I flung the moral angels from their perches with a haughty shudder.

In the early morning hours, four days before school started again,
I was on my knees, spewing scrambled eggs and rye toast
in a fount to put Regan to shame, but I was possessed
by a stupid soul more apathetic than Satan.

This is honesty

Ms. Kaufman, a personal friend of mine I must say, really has a knack for being honest, but not blunt or attacking. Contrary to the title, which works very well, there is no sugar in this poem about adolescent sexual ventures. Adding sugar when describing something that was not sweet to begin with is, I think, a fault for writers. It can make them sound immature. This experience for the narrator could have been trimmed, shaved, and, shined, buffed, built, and trite. It could have been made into a Hollywood sex scene, which is pathetic. Kudos to Dana for putting together such honesty.