July

The air drips–

laundry wilts on the line,

birds don’t bother to sing

and even the crows walk, gasping

for breath is difficult

in July.

When the barometer sinks

as the sun rises, heat

shimmers on the edges of leaves

and trickles in salty rivulets

between my breasts

because July

has no mercy, throws her heavy blanket

of humidity over us like a matador’s cape,

ruddy, rich, overwhelming

as we, dazed like the bull,

charge into each day

believing that we will win.

July

knows better.

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About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
This entry was posted in A River of Stones, short poems. Bookmark the permalink.

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