filé
our blood thickens
in the porous swell
of august. this is the kind of summer we tend
to with impatience. the kind of summer we tend
to blame our father’s absence on.
the honeysuckle rots violently in noon
soured sweat. the children beg for a couple
pennies & their innocence back. a desperate
exhaustion snags its tooth on the hem
of your mother’s skirt. drags her damn
near off the steps. heat swelling into
your father’s worst temper. his best
sunday mood, invading the corners
of any holy. up the block, thunder
chews on the bone of a clear day. it is always this kind
welt summer. always fire, bellowing from the estuary,
a barrel’s mouth. this same kindred, same thick red
lust, same throttled burgundy. in a neighborhood
you are beloved. in a district, you are impending.
in a basement, your lover plays that one joint, allows
you a toke of amnesia. glides her hand up your thigh
begs you to dance. begs you to differ from the dead.
you oblige. you hide your pleasure, 'less someone run off
with it. you sweat like you running from something.
this damn heat. no one welcomes
the humid vice. 'cept these elders. the dogs.
police.
things that have seen worse.
been it, even.
