Bodega | August

Our toothbrushes tip
sour powder as pollen

Steam rises from the tub
Anoints our temples

Yes, the Harlem heat
makes us walk nip first

through old doors
sagging and groaning

No one likes the weather
tucked between purple toes

Too hot to hug you
Too hot to crack a smile

Only a cold can
of something sweet

to save us: Honestly,
it’s hell on earth!

We splash our faces
with tap water

Wish for winter
(but not really)

and soak in the salon
like seeds splitting

the all-knowing sun giving us
more than enough love

to grow lush and
closer together

August