by Anna Dodson
August was quiet this year.
My evening chamomile seeped
outside, the figs lapped
the sky like pea blossom and lemon juice.
The glass, a white diamond
refracting all that quiet on the gloom.
I miss you most of all, my darling.
Heat fogged the window like two lovers in the backseat,
jazz flute on the vinyl.
The bass came in, brought a rit-a-tit hi-hat
a second before the beat dropped
thump-thump into my gut.
I opened the door to take a picture.
The alarm I’d forgotten was set bawled.
All the loneliness at last had a place to be.
In the afterglow, I found myself.
Remembered: beauty will cozen
a person through its mimicry of peace.
When I sent the picture, two friends said
pretty. A third did not reply.
An empty stage in a hall closed for renovations.