the child inside of me
has become comfortable
with the heat of the months
as they melt down
like hot wax then build one
on top of the other
into a mountain
in silence
has started to forget
the sound
of i’ll pray for you
as it rolls off of
grandmothers’ tongues
translating to
until you
come to your senses
or
cold wars are best waged
by those who learn to forget
they’re fighting them
if i
devein my tongue
removing from it
every last grain of sand
borrowed
from the rivers
that bore it
if i scrub the last
of summer’s acridity
its heat and oil
from beneath
my fingernails
from my hair and from
the bottoms of my feet
then maybe from now on
the melting of the months
will feel more like
a renaissance.
