Lit Writ
Mid-July
Outside, the summer sun
is scorching leaves brown,
turning soil to dust
and tightening skin into paper
for kindling.
Wilted around the kitchen table,
our legs drape like the death bends
of houseplants watered too much,
too late. We suck up orange juice
and white wine from plastic cups,
our straws clogged with pulp.
In this weather people take scissors
to clothes and hair. But our bangs
are long, our pants rolled.
We have no energy left to cut
the grass, or even trample it down.
At one time, we had watch tans.
But now hours slide over our skin like oil.
A sudden wind slams the door open
and we all look up, thinking of the cat,
how it would slip out.
This article originally appeared in Volume 31, Issue 24, published March 7, 2011.
