Too cloying again, this August light, its hours shifting,
lonely Ferris wheel’s apex, lonelier
the walking away.
How it swelters and beads
against the hairline, under the breast, a month of tears
run clear from salt and clay.
And when I say heavy heart, you feel that
like a river stone, like twelve
replacing the spine, you turned against
and over on all night.
It’s August. What did I have to say
about it when last we found ourselves
under this same moon and constellations?
The same. Always the same. That’s how
it hits: a cluster of bodies
so far away you only see their light
when they fall out.
The herbs in the garden have all gone
to seed or bolted in the dead of it.
No matter how much I water,
everything evaporates. The roots
thirst still, and I walk away
before they cry for mercy; the fine line
between drown and flourish
proves unnavigable.
In my car, the air conditioning
smells odd and faint, like my gran’s particular
brand of cigarettes. I’d rather not
drive anywhere. I’d rather sit
underneath the window to the sound of bells
rolling like opening credits
to a cinematic summer storm. This whole scene
like a movie—the crying, the “Turn off the light, Sugar.”
The dog found lying in a bed of ivy
a few short months later, the sadness of our end of August loss
too much even for her pure soul to bear.
flecks and wisps that trip you up
and you don’t know why. It’s only August.
It will pass.
It will come around again.
Emily Shearer is a poet, naïf intuitive painter, and mobile yoga and writing instructor. Her poems have been nominated for Pushcarts and “Best of”’s, and published in Kestrel, Silk Road Review, Please See Me, jellybucket, Fiolet & Wing, emry’s journal online, psaltery & lyre, West Texas Literary Review, Clockhouse, Ruminate, and Cave Wall (forthcoming) among others. She is the Poetry Consultant for Wide Open Writing. You can find her on the web at https://www.bohemilywrites.net.