This is the month where I learn about burnout
and the sun becomes a live match
centimeters from the skin.
While shingles singe on rooftops
the tarmac melts down along the edges
and a shaken soda
sits on the counter, bottled neck
ready to burst.
(He tells me he is going out and doesn’t know
when he’ll be back. Despite this heat,
ice has a particular burn.)
Lawns have begun to disintegrate
into brittle lessons about primary colors.
Observe what happens to green
when there is no longer blue. Feel the prick
of parched dry yellow.
When scientists announce
that rainwater is no longer safe,
air conditioners gasp through sweating metal gills;
highways screech with friction and brakes.
The clouds continue to grumble
and darken, heavy
with unpronounceable toxins
and undrinkable rain.
Jenny Wong is a writer, traveler, and occasional business analyst. Her favorite places to wander are Tokyo alleys, Singapore hawker centers, and Parisian cemeteries. She resides in Canada near the Rocky Mountains and tweets @jenwithwords.