Oh, August

Seven days
And seven hundred miles
On the high road —
Horizon rounding
With earth’s turn —
Shifting visions
Of self,
Back to clarity.
Dropping the veil.
To speak of these —

Susurration of air
Through dry bones,
Wet leaves —
How easily I fall
For my own mythology —
The selfish love,
And how that lesson
Never holds —
Nurturing the broken back
And yes,
Screaming sirens of
Three days’ neglect —
How we fit and where,
Even with jagged edges —
And the need for
These cures,
Slow to savor.

July slipped out the door
While I was away and
Now the gathering begins
In earnest —

Everything dry,
But thrumming
With breath and movement
And all the fullness
Of home.
Groups of small birds
Alternately flee
Or fight the hawk,
And all of this sun
Bursting out
Dissipates the desire
To run
Or to hide.

And so I am
Pulling August
Down here for
A tumble in the grass.
And no matter what I bring,
He takes me in,
Pulls the needle
From my hair,
And we are all brazen flesh,
Far removed still
From the coming chill
And the weight that bends us,
Breaks us.
For now,
He smells sweet
And exotic eye —
Gold-speckled jade —
His hot summer skin
Salty —
The sultry night
Meets the moon’s
Silver tongue.

Juicy and near full,
We embrace these strengths
And seductions.
No apologies, love.
Subtlety is for
Another season —
Let it throb and hum —
Let it beckon.
No season so selfless
Could ever mean you harm.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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