It’s Sundays Like These

by Trinity Keagy

It's Sundays like these 
That make you think of the way that the sky looked from the ground up when you were too little to remember how old you were, 
Or how warm the sun felt against the back of your neck with your head in your palms, 
looking for violets in the grass. 
 
It's Sundays like these that guide you to the river. 
You'll cut your hair later this year. 
You wade through the brown water, 
tarnish your white dress, 
Baptise yourself to prevent becoming what you already are – hopelessly unclean. Fractured, and shameful of yourself.  
You stagger home; 
come back clean and young. 
 
It's Sundays like these. 
And I'm lying in the dirt, looking for all the answers in the clouds –
looking for what you might have seen when you were small. 
The heavens guide me back to the kitchen and 
I wish you were in there, smiling over a bowl of washed raspberries.  
 
To have every Sunday with you. 

Trinity Keagy ‘24 is a student of psychology. She is interested in writing, nature, and visual arts.