Too Damn Hot 

Bogged with pollen and heat
bees belly-creep the pavement,
legs splayed like steamed crabs on a platter.  

My willow tree is an eggbeater 
churning air thick as batter through its blades. 

I crave the chill of an arctic ocean,
the frigid thrill of lolling 
on a wave's lacy hammock. Meanwhile
the moon, a half sac of drip and mist, rises into twilight. 

I hold an ice cube in my palm, 
an offering to the gods of autumn. 
I crackle the cube against my forehead, 
let it cool the sun-torched hollow of my throat. 

I crave late October: 
frost in the forecast, 
blue smoke twisting from my chimney 
like a child's crayon drawing,
bonfire flames dancing the shimmy.  

I smell desiccated grass,
the rancid gas of my neighbor's power mower, 
the smoke that ribbons from his cigarette. 

I crave cracks of lightning: 
electrified forks that prong the air,
thunder's engine growling low and mean 
as a revving racecar. 

Strange vapors halo the street lights: 
a row of incandescent angel skulls. 

My neighbor's mower stutters and stalls. 
He flicks his lighter and the butane flame 
adds waves of heat to the dusk. 
His voice is wet with humidity as he tells me 
even the dead are sweating tonight 

_______________________________

This poem explores one woman's distress at extreme global warming while her neighbor begins to understand what is happening. Ellen LaFleche is the author of three chapbooks and full-length collection Walking into Lightning.