photo: marilyn zelke-windau
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—
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