like salted slugs
in the hot sun.
these are the type of days I have
waited all year for-
watching your hair stick to your scalp.
hearing your voice come in
and out through the sounds of
a buzzing lawnmower,
clicking sprinkler.
sweat slowly crawls down from the sides
of my head just like my
thoughts
and the insects you would press
under your thumb on the concrete.
the housekeeper working quickly
at the clothesline.
I wanted to ask if she could
pin me up by my skin
and hang me
to dry.
and you breathing out your mouth,
through scorched lips
that had not yet
truly tasted summer.
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