aayoungif purgatory
is a soup kitchen line
in a catholic church
hell
is serving up grub
on the corner of 8th & vine
southern baptists
pulling up
in their tax exempt jesus wagon
to serve homeless people
hot chili in july
heaven, happens
in Cincinnati
when pigs fly
soon
you won’t remember
the sound of summer’s voice
anymore
summer
falls behind
glass and sand sunset
shadows taller
our love
blue ink
unwinding
into water
summers lies struggling
beneath the wait of autumn
murderous season
slicing away sunlight from her limbs
bleeding color onto orphaned trees
southern women
always seem
exhausted to me
i’m no exception
legs aching
in need
of a cold drink
perhaps
it’s partially
the toil over laundry
an oven’s heat
adding to
insufferably thick
summer
locust cry
air
hammock reading
gardens demanding attention
heaviness in their breasts
too soon to explain
why the chickens have gone quiet
and keeping secrets
from their husbands
finally a june
that has seen
no gloom
verdant
wet hot
already yielding
the perfect red tomato
as i pluck seeded fruit
from the vine
yellow blossoms conspire
still wearing curlers
sipping tea
looking over the rims of their glasses
breathing sighs which imply
you’re old enough to know better
reminding me
in motherly fashion
this is the sort of summer
that gets you pregnant
there they go
darting in and out of cars
on I-75 doing 95mph
rain or shine
beneath artemis digital traffic signs
proclaiming it motorcycle season
share the road
“stupid shits”
i utter as i drive
i’m plagued every time i see a bike
ducati, indian, or harley
they all kill you the same
a photographic memory
and having been a mortician
doesn’t mix well
still shots in my mind
the smell of torn viscera and burn
you can’t download online
because a head wearing a helmet
can still be broken at the neck
turning it backwards on the body
a limb wearing leather
will quite easily sever from the torso
you’d be surprised how
the flesh of the nose
the lower jaw
and tongue
so willingly rip from the face
when asphalt is applied
so no,
you half drunk mid-life crisis
stumbling out of the mini-mall
sports bar
in your just for men beard dye
and
go vroom vroom costume
i’m not interested in a ride
i only put johnnie walker in my mouth once
stoned on a balcony after a poetry reading
swimming with gutterfish
early summer in brooklyn
he was beautiful
perfect for me
cock so big you could feel it in your spine
so i knew to leave him there
it was a sunny summer afternoon
i don’t remember exactly when
but i must have been around 3
because we still lived in the little farmhouse
on ellison ridge
where uncle louis hung himself
the day felt the same way i feel
when i hear the cowboy junkies sing
sweet jane
lush and southern
dad was sitting with me
at the white picnic table
he built with his hands
i climbed on top of the table
to be closer to the large overhanging tree limbs
telling him i wanted to hang from them like a monkey
he hopped to his feet and i remember the jangle of keys and change coming from his pocket
his watch flashed in the sunlight when he picked me up and put me on his shoulders
then we walked to the lowest sturdy branch
within my reach and he said
“Grab on a-hold…”
i remember giggling with glee
as i latched on
he slowly crouched down and turned
to face me
freeing my swinging legs to dangle
he never took his hand off my shoe
“Daddy, let me swing!”
“I’m not lettin’ go-ah you, little girl…”
i held on for as long as i could but
my hands began to lose their grip
i clutched at him with my chubby legs
as he caught me in his arms
all i saw were his smiling dark eyes and glimmering green leaves
he was dead within three years
from kentucky fried booze and pills
and i’ve spent everyday thereafter reaching for him in various ways
uncle louis’ ghost isn’t the only one still hanging in that tree