I remember all sorts of things ‘bout her – what we done together and the songs she taught me to sing and she taught me to dance, too, dancing without caring who saw. And it was a crazy time and I can’t believe, looking back, that it was just for a summer. And the sun was so hot the tar on the roads was sticky, that I recall, and the grass withered in the yard, and butterflies sat pale and panting on the windowsill so we put out saucers of sugared water for ‘em to drink from. And Minnie said as how butterflies was the souls of dead babies and I cried to think that.
Minnie, and she smelled of milk and cookies and bread. And she pulled me to her and we was all wrapped up together so I didn’t know which arm or leg was Minnie and which was me. And she said, ‘I love you once, I love you twice, I love you more than liquorice’ which was not how the rhyme was s’pposed to go. And we just laughed till we hurt inside.
‘I love you once, I love you more, I love you till we both are sore.’
Summers like that, well, you don’t think ‘bout ‘em ending. They don’t seem like they ever could. And the air was so breathless still – or not always still but shimmering, like the whole world was sunk in water and rippling. And we’d take ourselves up to the river sometimes and there’s a green dark pool there with fish like grey secrets on the bottom. And Minnie and me, we’d strip down to nothing and go swimming – just whenever it took our fancy.
Minnie and she looked all grown and there was a woman’s shape to her – breasts and hips and everything sloping and hill. And I wanted to kiss her and touch her all over, and I remember that, remember the wanting and the needing. And she said I was stick thin and just a whiplash of a girl and she touched ‘neath my left breast to feel where my heart was and she said she could hear it tripping like I was jumping rope.
And of all the things I remember ‘bout Minnie – the kisses, sweet as butterflies sucking sugared water; the laughing inside and out; and Minnie running ahead of me, her woman’s tits jiggling and the see-saw of her hips – well, the thing I remember most is her hand, soft as dream and touching warm ‘neath my breast and listening for my heart’s song with her palm.
‘I love you once, I love you always, I love you for just a hundred days’.
And when the days are hot as blisters now, and I think of back then, and miss Minnie more than words, well, I strip down to nothing and I close my eyes so I am not where I am and can be anywhere – and in my head I am back there at that green dark pool, and I touch myself soft as fish secrets or butterflies or babies, touching just where my heart is, and I say her name over and over, making the shape of it with my lips, tasting it on my tongue, and I am breathless with longing.
Patricia Ann McNair 
I remember all sorts of things ‘bout her – what we done together and the songs she taught me to sing and she taught me to dance, too, dancing without caring who saw. And it was a crazy time and I can’t believe, looking back, that it was just for a summer. And the sun was so hot the tar on the roads was sticky, that I recall, and the grass withered in the yard, and butterflies sat pale and panting on the windowsill so we put out saucers of sugared water for ‘em to drink from. And Minnie said as how butterflies was the souls of dead babies and I cried to think that.
Minnie, and she smelled of milk and cookies and bread. And she pulled me to her and we was all wrapped up together so I didn’t know which arm or leg was Minnie and which was me. And she said, ‘I love you once, I love you twice, I love you more than liquorice’ which was not how the rhyme was s’pposed to go. And we just laughed till we hurt inside.
‘I love you once, I love you more, I love you till we both are sore.’
Summers like that, well, you don’t think ‘bout ‘em ending. They don’t seem like they ever could. And the air was so breathless still – or not always still but shimmering, like the whole world was sunk in water and rippling. And we’d take ourselves up to the river sometimes and there’s a green dark pool there with fish like grey secrets on the bottom. And Minnie and me, we’d strip down to nothing and go swimming – just whenever it took our fancy.
Minnie and she looked all grown and there was a woman’s shape to her – breasts and hips and everything sloping and hill. And I wanted to kiss her and touch her all over, and I remember that, remember the wanting and the needing. And she said I was stick thin and just a whiplash of a girl and she touched ‘neath my left breast to feel where my heart was and she said she could hear it tripping like I was jumping rope.
And of all the things I remember ‘bout Minnie – the kisses, sweet as butterflies sucking sugared water; the laughing inside and out; and Minnie running ahead of me, her woman’s tits jiggling and the see-saw of her hips – well, the thing I remember most is her hand, soft as dream and touching warm ‘neath my breast and listening for my heart’s song with her palm.
‘I love you once, I love you always, I love you for just a hundred days’.
And when the days are hot as blisters now, and I think of back then, and miss Minnie more than words, well, I strip down to nothing and I close my eyes so I am not where I am and can be anywhere – and in my head I am back there at that green dark pool, and I touch myself soft as fish secrets or butterflies or babies, touching just where my heart is, and I say her name over and over, making the shape of it with my lips, tasting it on my tongue, and I am breathless with longing.