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Poem

Hot, sweet, sweltering July
When all you can hear are distant hummings
Of inside fans and flies incessant drumming
Fans rattling inside, flies outside amongst the grasses.
Time seems to stand so very still.

Just the act of breathing
Leaves some beaded sweated tears
Some tiny drops of condensation
Along the hollows of your breasts
And the hollows of your mind's years.

There is no place to escape to
This heat hangs like a canopy
Impenetrable to any cool winds
Like the heaviest of parlor drapes
All winds are captive, within a coffin held.

Even the whitest of whites
Can do nothing to repel against this heat
And even the lightest of T-shirts
Leaves one desiring to wear much less
To be bare and wear nothing at all would be
One's preferred exotic and chosen dress.

The low hum of the box fans
And the ceiling fans in the sky
A reminder that there is some belief
That they might move a bit of air
To gain some temporary relief.

Strategically placed for battle
Against this stagnant heat
Their whirling blades end up doing nothing
But acting as hopeful placebos
Against this hot, sweet, sweltering July.

 

(January 27, 2011  Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved

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