is parched ivy stitched to my ribcage. July climbs my clammy back and leaves behind evacuated shells that tug and scratch, crumble, cling, crack between fingers too eager for winter solstice. They are not wrong to mistake this skin for a graveyard. They are not wrong for wanting to hang all that weight on someone else’s shoulders. I don’t know why they’ve chosen mine: small as creek stones, fragile as bird bones. But I carry them into August, pray for an early fall.

August smells like sunscreen and ripe peaches, skin stained like regret: indigo rose, all the daisy chains we never made, friendship bracelets we forgot to bead and braid. August is nobody’s girl, volcanic heart, liminal sword of light where two curtains meet. Already she swims in grey tulle rolling in from September like coastal Maine fog. The silver lining: the mosquitos are migrating mudward for winter. We are past July. We are no longer drowning in the deep end of humidity. I am no longer a child. The maples shuffle the cards and cut the deck; lay August, like a wet sheet, out to dry.