In the wet heat of August
I am forced into honesty,
there is no hiding and no pretending,
even as much as we may wish there were.
There are flip flops, tropical color painted toe nails, and
thin cotton tank tops,
sweat dripping all over no matter what.
It’s the – no matter what – that gets to me,
there is no helping this feeling of being laid bare,
on the subway platform,
at the grocery store,
while at work.
This look with others of a shared understanding:
it is so damn hot, and we are
Surrendering into the heat again and again,
diving face first into glass after glass of cold water,
devouring chunks of watermelon as if I would never know
food again (and thank goodness, I will),
I am forced to look at everything as naked as I was born.
I see my hands and what and who they hold, no longer suffocated by gloves.
I feel the weight of my body,
every pound being carried with more awareness
because all of me is contact with all of the thick air.
In this wet heat of August,
I am a textbook romantic and a sharp tongued cynic,
both miserable and relieved,
forever looking for my way back to a home
I don’t think I ever had.
I have started to shower twice each day
so I can bookend my day with renewal:
to wipe clean the feeling of sleep
and then wipe clean the feeling of the city.
In between those two renewals,
I am alive: wide, voracious, confused, eager, grounded,
sweating and breathing,
aching and meditating,
learning what it is be as broken and whole
as I understand myself – and the brutal dense summer –
Your Higher Self