When he says he loves hot weather
I wish for a rainy day.
A downpour
to collect the coolness
and store it in my skin.
So when the sun sizzles,
cooks me during another hot July summer,
I can pull it out in cup fulls
pour over my skin in a slow motion montage.
Chase away the heat
like a bad cartoon villain
instead of playing the damsel
cinched down on the train track
of record breaking heat wave
and when I cry out
I don’t like heat,
to be cooked daily.
He tries to soothe me
in a lullaby of you will adjust
and I watch his mouth
as it keeps chanting slowly
and I realize I never learned his language
of sun and overheating.
And he can’t hear me,
he can’t understand my language
of rainstorms and puddles.
Poetic Trials 