Under Summer

Summer attacks the kitchen,
strawberry stains are her blood on the cutting board, proof that she's alive.
Misguided peas resting patiently, shriveled to fit sweetly
in the slats of the floor boards, and the onion tops wilting away in the sink,
sending their scent, hot and earnest.

The oven, cool from days without labor, doesn't click or sigh.
Zucchini are no doubt plotting their baby-making in the refrigerator drawer,
and a sticky circle from yesterday's cocktail shines on the tabletop,
asking remember when we danced last night?
and grips everything that crosses its path.

The circle of pollen around the wildflowers, a meditation for their lives,
the coffee cooling, the grocery list with only two words on it.
I ponder the cherries, first of the season, staining my fingertips,
pits in my palm, endearingly bitter on my tongue.

The fan flips up the stacks of newspapers, unearthing the mail
I had hidden there on purpose, and the air pushes me thinking,
down to the floor, where it's one degree cooler,
where I inspect my surroundings from half my height,
and I think about dogs and babies,
who would know just what to do down here.

Inspecting the coffee bean in the corner, the tiny asparagus coin that missed the pan,
the grains of beach sand, carried in from my fast,
scattered walks of the week.
The recipes gather dust, the whiskey does not.
Ice is a prize, fire our curse.

The table receives my arguments, my on-and-on thoughts,
thinking nothing of it, the condensation falls to a puddle
around the pitcher of tea.
I stand to look out the window, to see waves crashing in
and the skins of precious humans,
like hot shimmering specks, like chipped-off pieces of the sun.

I remember winter, with its mashing hug, and I lift out my heart,
letting the summer prove her technique, letting her languid arms invisibly,
dashingly curl around me, her sultry breath pulling my consciousness away,
bringing myself to me, pushing her hot, sweet light into my anxiousness,
circling and curing my still-thawing heart.