The heat, a living thing, traps
its legs around my lungs, trying
to suck the air out of the scraps
of rags they have become.  The

sun, unmerciful!  beats down
on the head, stirring the brains
in the pot of my skull.  I brown,
then blacken, but do not fall.

Buzzards line the air currents,
waiting for me to drop my pen
into the dirt.  I will not relent:
wheel like a drunk but will not

give them the satisfaction of my
death:  I write on the unforgiving
sky, my story.  The night will cry
my epitaph in a thousand stars;

I will not fade; some part of me
will remain behind for all to see...

(c) 2009, Karla Dorman (6/19)