July Is Mean and Limp

by Carrie Vaccaro Nelkin

July is mean and limp

like the clothes she hangs

in the bathroom to dry,

sopping for three days

as wind inhales

outside the high window.

In her dreams

November gusts burst through wind chimes

tinkling in moonlight,

but mornings the air wraps

a warm wet tongue down her neck

and round her thighs.

Her walls sweat

like slabs of lard

and let out the bellicose breath

of fusty old age

when she opens the door.

July is mean and limp

and sour

and lives in the red shorts

on her vein-throttled legs,

the skin of her soft white arms,

the pink beneath

her hay-and-silver hair.

What to do?

What to do in this pitiless time

with one virago behind

and one still to come?

What but fan

and rock and sit spread-legged

so the bulges have room,

and caress

the small black radio

close to her ear

and hang more clothes

in the bathroom to dry

and listen for wind chimes at

the height of the sun

as she heard them last night

in her dream?

* * * * *

"July Is Mean and Limp" was originally published in Rose & Thorn Journal (November 2012).

Carrie Vaccaro Nelkin’s poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, Grasslimb Journal, Poppy Road Review, Connecticut River Review, Poetry Quarterly, and other places. Carrie is author of the novel Snare (The Waiting Dark) and has stories in journals like Bards and Sages Quarterly, Supernatural Tales, and Luna Station Quarterly.