another summer since
It is hot again.
Which is to say that my palms burn with salt.
Which is to say that another beige five-over-one has sprouted
its cacophonous legs from our fertile ground.
Which is to say that it’s been another summer since.
Ten summers, actually,
since the toe of a white canvas Ked hit this overgrown backyard,
since withered beneath an insatiable sun,
since even the roses of my cheeks have wilted.
What happens if you spend ten summers screaming at the
sky out of spite?
What happens if the oaks refuse to recoil and sigh into the
stagnant air?
What happens if it is not a dry heat?
Which is to say:
What happens if none of us belong here?
2023-02-01