Henry and June

By Lana Dean Highfill

In 1994, I was too young
(not twenty-one)
to get a hotel room in my name.


We took a third floor room
with a view
overlooking the beach,
or so the brochure so brightly proclaimed
in shades of orange and pinky red.

For that longest day
we left not once
to explore the sands,
to walk in the tides.

We stayed
wrapped in hotel sheets
crisp as leaves —
They wove themselves between your thighs,
shown white in setting sun
through dusty window panes.

You had signed us in
as Henry and

June —
in our summer hotel room —
filled with salt
and sand
and your hand
upon my back.

Lana Dean Highfill holds an MFA in Writing from Pacific University in Forest Grove, OR. She writes poetry in Southern Indiana, where she is an English professor. Her interests include live music, comic books, sci-fi, and marine biology. She has had poems published by Slipstream Press, Lost Tower Publications, Halcyon Days Magazine, Blue Horse Press, Three Drops Press, and Rose Red Review. She is currently working on a collaborative art project for her first chapbook.