languorous in summer’s grip,
we laze and pant around
as the heat transforms our minds into ovens
that instantly cook every thought
and every hope of thought.
i can’t think straight in this heat;
not that i ever do think straight,
but there is usually no perspiring fog
enshrouding my brain,
my infinite organ.
i long for Persephone’s touch;
a brush of her finger across my cheek
will turn me cold and turn me to stone.
that’s what i desire.
perhaps the heat will worsen
and the stone that enshrouds me
will crack like an egg.
i would leak out like a yolk.
the earth plans on eating us all.
but not before it cooks us
and seasons us with heartbreak and grief.
this planet has always been hungry for us.
Iestyn Tudor 