Solstice
This night air smears like oil spatter on a stove,
it cannot be cleaned up with just a cloth.
Even in the shower, this solstice can’t be scrubbed.
The rash that blooms above my elbow
appears like red plastic beads erupting from me.
My skin cannot breathe, it soups in its stickiness,
as I lay in our thinnest cotton sheet.
Outside, I hear the moths breeding in the damp,
their wings froth the humid street lamps.
I watch the fungi build their architecture,
they part the grass in the quiet corners of night.
I unravel into a new shape as the solstice approaches,
I glow with sweat that moves like restless feet.
I am an unsettled object, misplaced
in this confusing warmth, my veins wish to escape me,
this sticky body. They pop out like lungs trying to breathe
they grow wings like pulsing moths who kamikaze
into the dripping flood lights outside our home,
they batter their wings, smearing their powder.
Our detritus amasses in this humid weather,
only on nights when we cannot breath or sleep,
do we realize how similar we are to a glass that sweats,
we drip in this weather, like a candle that runs its wax,
the flame unsettling solid to liquid,
on this night we become solid to liquid, sticky oil,
our tongues wet with our dreams, our lips thirsty
for a rainstorm that refuses to burst and break.
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