in the thick of june

the whirring of the fan,
occasional rap-beating,
some distance away,
thumping inside the trunk
of a souped-up car.

the stirring of leaves,
rising and falling curtains,
muted television voicebox,
providing blue half-light
as shadows play.

the spurring of emotions,
yours, mine and ours,
knuckles hitting plaster,
walls coming down,
toes pointed in dance.

the slurring of words,
mouths searching,
beyond pouty lips,
sigh-sound meter
of time well spent.

the purring of souls,
scattered hair to pillows,
orange rinds peeled back,
cold fruit to soothe,
love's fire still burning.

the blurring of visions,
raindrops dancing
rhythmically roof-top,
nature's tribal beat,
singing us to sleep.

 

Bugs hitting the screen and congregating around the porch light, the thick perfume of peonies, a brooding night sky … all of these June-y things make me think of Gwendolyn Brooks, “jazz june” and all that.  I was lucky enough to meet Ms. Brooks in my teen years.  She held my hands in hers while she spoke to me, so I consequently have not washed my hands since.  Gross, I know, but poetic in justice.  However it is that you “jazz june,” do it up right.  Ms. Brooks left this world in 2000, but her words remain.  J

"Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies.
And be it gash or gold it will not come
Again in this identical guise." -A Brooks-ism