photo: marilyn zelke-windau
In August
by
Marilyn Zelke-Windau
Banshees don’t rise to
the moon
on hot nights. Only
weary women wait up,
wailing the heat.
Sweating out salt and
ale-syrup
from pores relaxed,
men wander through
watery dreams
open mouthed, wanting
fruit.
Dogs, on swollen,
gravel-grey pads,
circle, stirring the
dust, and flop—
belly, chin, ear—
to sleep.
Foggy threads of
spirit weft the air
with ripening scents.
Even the dying and
dead
are not cold in
August.
That month is a
time of low pressed affronts,
when rain is no
relief, and thunder
lightnings us into
wakefulness.
~ previously published in Seems
