Mirage Poem by Ivona Sophia

the air disappeared a few days ago.
some people call it a heat wave. I call it hell
or, when I’m in intellectual mood, a sauna party
with clothes on. nice looking clothes

until the old air conditioner gives up for good
after a few short coughs. mercury is rising.
the sun is higher and higher as if there
were no limit for it to climb. I’m looking at it

through the holes in leaves. because of these holes,
I can’t breathe. the production of ozone is done.
everything stays still. even shadows don’t try to reach
the point of where they should be at this hour.

the colony of ants is on vacation catching a tan
on my deck. post mortal tan.
the heat is silent, still, white. it feels so surreal
in my lungs. it’s a watercolor painting without water,

yellow grass, yellow sky, white sun (as white as foam
on ice-cold beer in a green, frosted bottle) .