Fling, Flang, Flung 

by Corinne Caraway

In the Summer of 2011 I was way too young 

to be the beloved of a jazz trombonist,

but in my defense you were way too young 

to call yourself a jazz trombonist. 

And yet, there we were. 

Fumbling for each other’s hands under

Fellowship Hall tables on Wednesday night

after just barely meeting on Sunday morning,

desperately trying to fit forever into a week. 

And we almost did, didn’t we?

Sealing it up with a kiss (or two)

in the church courtyard, only to get caught 

laying in that singular patch of grass as you sang 

“Somewhere Over the Rainbow” softly to the sky 

instead of trying to take anything from me. 

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t looking for you,

well not you, but Someone with your general 

stature, disposition, and good humor.

Someone to turn me into the kind of girl 

who returned home with news of Someone 

from Somewhere that wasn’t Here.

Someone I could love for the remainder of June,

and possibly July. Just like all those Sarah Dessen 

books on my nightstand. 

And gosh. We almost made it through July.

Despite the distance from the forest to the coast,

We delighted each other with a grand exchange 

of handwritten letters and mix CDs between

minute monitored phone calls that kept us 

both awake past curfew. My lack of a driver’s 

license had never seemed so insignificant. 

Distance had never felt so romantic, so safe. 

I didn’t know it yet, but I was on the verge

of losing what was left of my innocence 

when the news of you silenced a declaration 

I was not ready for, and you became the 

unknowing obstacle of my growing up too quickly

at the hands of Someone Else Closer to Home. 

You know, the kind of Someone who turns distance 

into an opportunity, always looking for a way 

around being “just friends.”

The kind of Someone who presses on what’s fraying 

between you and Not Them just enough to make 

you give up on that thing they knew you still wanted. 

The kind of Someone who lies in wait. 

There are things no one tells you about patience.

How it’s a virtue until it’s not. How holding out 

hope in the sun makes it rot until it's 

no longer the kind of fruit you want. 

The truth is, when August began her breach,

I wasn’t tired of you at all, but Someone Else was,

and I had yet to learn how to deny Anyone

who wanted anything from me. 

So you were reduced back to Someone 

from Somewhere that wasn’t Here. 

A stack of letters in my sock drawer, 

a story from my nightstand come to life,

an old song I’d lay on the floor listening to,

trying to remember what it was like,

What was it like? 

The last taste of fifteen in Summertime.