When I think of dog days, I remember Frankie Addams,

F. Jasmine Addams lost and struggling in the novel,

adolescent, truculent, a tomboy. I see her roaming

the streets of the South on an August day, her hair slicked back

and clothes clinging to her in sweat. She longs to go to Alaska.

We studied Carson McCuller’s novel along with The Hobbit

and To Kill a Mockingbird for our Junior Cert.

I related to Frankie’s awkwardness, the way she longed to fit in.

I think our teacher was showing us that it was ok to be different,

that feeling was something we could do.

She told us to underline Atticus Finch’s words

to Scout about walking around in someone else’s skin,

to consider things from another’s point of view.

I had nothing to do on the summer holidays, so I read,

bought The Lord of the Rings trilogy in one huge volume,

the bible, my brother and I christened it. The cover was green,

a majestic Gandalf portrayed holding his staff in the woods.

We named the kittens that appeared from the haybarn Frodo and Sam.

At night we lit a campfire and trailed across the fields with a torch

and makeshift wooden weapons. We stayed out for as long as we could,

until startled by distant barking or a frightening rustle,

or until the stars were too bright, too close, too silver.

I was allowed to take the bus to O’Connell St.,

arranged to meet friends under the clock at Easons.

I wore combat trousers, smoked a Marlboro, felt dizzy afterwards.