Attempts To Silence The Sun
John Lynch April 2019

When the solstice arrived there no attempts were made to silence the sun. 

My skin burns lines between the days blur nights as hot as noons causing us to night-sweat swimming into pools of crisp cathedral water ceilings.

Our earns turn our bodies over with fan frosting fret off our backs to listen.

 

Crickets charm and swings swing knives into tomatoes cut into sandwiches with mayonnaise slathered fat on the first bite of red velvet ruby slices of fresh lemon pie from the garage icebox topped with chalk and screw always with a dollop of freshly whipped cream.

Summers here aren't like other times elsewhere warmer color is brighter here. More purple, more contrast, more red.

Air is thicker and tinged with gossip and barbecue stains linger across the sky

byline and burned across grandfather's face.

There is a sensuality to the makeup of potato salad marinating in the sun too long.

Heat and heavy skies dripping in the sun giving life

to the green beans and the high yield native and oily like sweetcorn dripping your neighbor's butter and black cherry. 

Porch sitting in summer is ritualistic and rocking chairs chase

the silhouettes of folks like mawmaw drifting off.

You give mama some sugar caramelized by the intensity of rays

beaming off her face well worn by the summers ago. 

 Artwork: Pamela Coleman Smith, 1909