This month has been hotter than
the Junes I've known before.
The flies buzz and land where they please
like angry confused police
on a busy cross street.
Sweat rivers running down faces and
valleys between shoulder blades, breasts.
They wash away patterns of perfume,
traces of sanity fade away drip by drip.
When even a shower of either temperature
will not relieve the soul from its posture in hell.
I make playlists to take my mind away.
And when my battery dies, I charge,
the batteries getting as hot as my forehead.
Only when the sun goes down do I find time
slowing, offering rest in the quiet humidity.

06/20/2017

Posted on 06/25/2017
Copyright © 2024 Meghan Helmich