July Heat


By Breia Gore

I used to think I was a starved, godforsaken mishap,
a piece of Monet the underworld hadn’t finished molding.
My eye’s had been neglected when it came to brightening like the other girls,
sunken in and an off shade of umber that doesn’t spark like the sun


or ocean
or evergreen mountains on the off-coast of Ireland.
Whatever higher power was in control of my identity,
did not see my purpose to be of the celestial.

I spent the summer as a bitter, little, coffin maker
eating scones and worrying about the combination of my qualities.
Just waiting for a blessing from Aphrodite or Freyja,
I imagined them laughing in their chariots pulled by persians,
I imagined their wine dripping from their lips, laughing at this silly, mortal girl
with an undefined purpose,
did they know who made me, were they as caught up in this act as I? 

Realization was abrupt, July heat made me dizzy and my brain connect,
the gods don’t make me, I make me.
My baby browns are perfectly placed and my temperament is
caught up to the act of a fox dining on it’s prey.
I could tell Aphrodite a thing or two about lust, about love,
about me,
about identity,
she does not have the ability to look pass human flesh as well I,
for that the pity lingers.

No comments

Post a Comment