by Kelly Erin Gray
August was a fever pitch, a dream
of waking on sleepless nights.
Of a fawn past your shoulder, driver
side green and flirting with interstate.
Eyes locked with the fall once it sees
the trust, the way it streams by. Light
pools and the heat, it ferments. You
could try to talk to him, even if it would
only be to make yourself feel better.
You’re afraid he won’t look, but what
if he does and what if he still. August
breathes heavy, ripens like a fruit, and
rots like a body, like time’s a gauze we
wrap. Try to name three things you can
hear: the cicada whine like wattage
and cry like a current. August simmers,
and you board the windows? All you can
do is wait, like lobsters bathing in a pot.
Considered or not, I’m not sure it matters.
****
Kelly Erin Gray is a writer and lecturer based in Boston. Her work has appeared in Cleveland Review of Books, Hobart, and Burial Magazine, among others. She can be found online @kelly_erin_.