When the sun hides on its big day
A moment of relief to expel some heat during our cruel, time-bending Summer.
non-risqué double entendres is a love letter to ambiguity. Bittersweet tensions, open-ended questions, comical happenstance, feelings with spark, brain-blasts that stick, investigations into the grey. I’ll seal and stamp my musings, however messy, and hope they make their way to you safely.
Dearest,
Happy longest day and happy shortest night to all those on this specific sad mass of sedimentary rocks.
I continue to struggle to make it make sense.
The solstice has been a day of reverence since the new stone age. A marker of time passed. Grass grown. Abundance achieved. We celebrate such a thing because the sheer idea of it keeps us hopeful.
Make a wish when the ball of gas hits the heavens. Okay but make sure you close your eyes…if you look too long, you’ll be unable to see beyond it…wishes don’t come true without some abandon of what’s in view.
Believe in the fantasy. Believe in celebration despite the unrelenting heat.
Believe in your body’s ability to manage when the air bursts, sopping with moisture, at the beginning of a grand hot spell. The Midwest pretends not to swell, but it has and does and will. Rings too tight, strands of hair wrung around your neck. The brain swims. Full-bellied breaths, big spitty vents, and the candle still won’t go out.
Wish harder.
Cloud-clapping thunderstorms, raindrops bigger than the bunnies in the side yard, and it may as well be one of those fucking trick candles.
Knowing there’s wind, but the breeze is warm, is a specific kind of disappointment.
Like knowing time is fast and important and irrelevant.
Summer will blaze on.
Little fires everywhere, humble attempts to contain and control them.
Rest, missing space to settle into.
I must confess,
A robin flew a few inches from me,
worm in mouth, desperately hungry belly full.
A cardinal couple foraged on the ground nearby.
A flash of black and red and yellow sped past me, first to the right and then again
on the left.
I practiced my wingspan.
I reached further.
I bring my ruler and angle it toward the sun.
Just a few degrees over and, perfect, I’m baking,
full body oven just East of Lincoln,
and I think I forgot to turn off the gas. Skin slick, sweat pooling in the places I wish you’d reach for.
That asphalt driveway, the hailstorm in Indiana,
the sunrise after.
The hum just under, a faceless guide, I simmer.
And if you have any free time on your hands,
Pay attention.
Take a train to see something beautiful.
Listen to Head Cold, Night Sweat.
Blast Times Like These.
Maybe it will never make sense.
I bet that’s what’s worth learning to hold?
Yours,
Bianca