Treasure Island

Emlyn Wentwhistle


Heat


In such sullen heat
words themselves,
as if they bore some talismanic balm,
drip like perspiration from the lips.

My studied concentration singed,
I note the interruption with a groggy nod.
This room's the sump
in which the residue of all our sumo conversations sit.

The drear comparison with other nights.
The taste of sumac on my tongue.
Averse to change,
We leave our house to fall
For fear of kicking loose the struts.

And still that stubborn memory of another night
And the heat of the long drive out of town
And a girl like a lioness in heat
And the signals clear and spelled out in semaphore
In the electric heat of oncoming headlights.
A raging heat
- my foot pressed to the floor,
the windows down
and the wind
near singing.
And the night clawing at our sweat stained raggedness
Cooling the heat of promissory skin.

Submitted: Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, May 21, 2013

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