I thought it was August heat
smothering us, making bedclothes
stick and sleep an uncomfortable
tangling together.
Air-conditioning was poor, the unit
beyond repair, with vents placed too
high on the wall to be useful, leaving
us to swim in a dark well of summer
sweat.
We threw off the sheets, kept the blinds
closed, the curtains drawn, believing
darkness would keep us cool.
When you sought relief in a room
down the hall, I chalked it up as a
quest for comfort, but still
you complained about the heat
and found that room to be just
as suffocating as the one you left.
Even after a portable A/C cooled
the night for sleep, you complained:
about its size, the sound it made
while it ran all day, traffic noise
in the street, the voices of children
at the nearby school, and the heat,
an August heat that even Arctic air
couldn't cool.
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the pulling away has always been an image that haunts me as well
this helpless feeling of something so deeply and once easily tethered coming
unmoored
good job🤨
I love this poem. The sadness is as palpable as the heat.