Sun Sick

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.

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April

April brings storms

that rattle and shudder

against windows

with winds

that howl and whip

past the trees.

Pressed close enough

cheeks can feel fingertips

of something, someone

not quite there.

Pattering and scampering

outside

along the whirls in the glass

traced on the lazy afternoons.

In this room,

in this house,

all gods are welcome.

With hands around latches

there is no need of prayers

to call them here.

In the morning

the carpets will be spongy,

damp beneath feet,

and the curtains slick

to the touch.

Tonight however,

calls for bare faces

turned upwards

open

to the skies.

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