Summer is the neighbor
who just quit talking to us.
The slammed door began
a hot spell, my face red,
sweat soaking my tee,
I yell at summer to stop
the silent treatment.
He drinks tea made on the sun’s
golden burner. Through a window,
we see him laughing and smoking.
We kneel before lilies,
weed, my arms like cups
with a hairline crack.
All the strength leaks out.
Maybe summer will keel over.
We’ll skip the funeral
though we know summer,
with fury, makes the reddest
dahlias open
on a day when we crave color.
