Making July
The way my mouth must move
to make the word July
the oooh curl of lips
and push of air followed
by the open-mouth roll of tongue
ends in an expression
that could be mistaken
for the way I look
when your hands calm
the outside of my skin.
This all started in June
and now the low fruit ripens,
falls onto ground carpeted
with faded jacarandas.
Alone in my bed I feel peaches
open, I hear plums softly
thud on the path between
our houses.
Mosquitos sing low in my ear
Like a persistent lover, like
a warmth from my depths
that won’t let me sleep.
Tonight I will rise, open
screen doors without regard,
find you on my porch
with no further
elaboration.
The South Carolina Review, Volume 35, Number 2 (Spring 2003)
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