Inaugust

If we could forget
August for what it does—
its shootings and
cataclysmic war catalysts—
if we could just be
in August—
we’d be. Dust.
Brown grass. We’d
be. Exoskeletons. Warm.
Hearts leaking onto
the patio, dripping into
the landscaping. We’d be leaking.
Then husks. If we could forget the
way August is,
we could beat back black flies.
We could be. Solar flares.
Perseids.
Beaches on fire.

No one would see us,
with the bugs and sun and
clouds and birds screeching
across the sky.
Pop flies plopping
twenty feet behind second
base, we’d sit there,
the infielders and outfielders
unable to spot us
in the blazing light.
We’d be.

If we could forget August,
we’d begin to understand
the urn or the plot;
rather,
we’d begin to be
okay with the
dust, the cricket’s fiddle
and the grasshopper’s sideways
jaws, we’d be okay with the dry
dark, we could wither
with pride,
even joy
if we could forget August.

The horizontal
lines on the calendar,
they owe you.

Photo by Andres Siimon on Unsplash