No one tells you that
it will always be hot-

that you will lay
on the floor, still
and bare beneath
a single white sheet
and watch your warm,
stale breath rise,
but you know it anyway.

You will place your back
against the humid walls
to feel the chill and pull
at windows that have grown
fat and hold stubbornly
flush to their frames
like the hands of chubby
toddlers grabbing at
their parents' fingers.

A thousand summers will leave
their shimmer and stink
on your neck and behind
your knees and you will sweat.

It will attract bugs.

Your legs will become
a bumpy pink topography
of razorburn and mosquito
bites, but you will rub
them against another's
sticky limbs and they
will understand and they
will find you beautiful.

It will take twenty
sober July's to accept this,
and you will wait it out.

You will stand smiling,
full and heavy under patio
umbrellas, learning
that love tastes like
chipolte cream sauce
and three glasses
of unchilled chiante.

It will always
be hot.

07/12/2004

Author's Note: a summer sketch & musing.

Posted on 07/12/2004
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason