Tonight I am chasing the cool side of the pillow,
almost as elusive as breeze
despite the windows with their open mouths
panting in the heat.
Here, the backs of my knees slide slicked
between day fresh sheets
too quickly twisted into abandoned heaps,
lumps of coal still smoldering at the foot of this bed
all while the ceiling fan wheels in slow circles
the air curdling into soups so thick
it sticks in my lungs
like grief I want to scream into the cool side of a pillow
until my breath has turned cotton to swamp,
until I cannot tell the tears from my sweat
and the summer feels a little less like a coffin
pressing in on all sides.