I.

Summer of drought-dead

grass—what if,

for all future months, the blinds

are always drawn, the AC

always on? I’m not prepared to exist

in a box.

II.

Are my houseplants overwatered,

or lacking sunlight? Slow deaths

make me wonder

if fate ever turns

around,

which can wear on a person

who frets over opening

the fridge at the thought

of week-old strawberries

woven with mold…

as if that mold did not

grow slow,

and with time.

A phone call.

The temperature near 91°.

What will soon come

for me is closer. At night I walk

and walk, still

sweltering—skin sticking

to shirt sticking—too many layers

and all—

III.

I’m not prepared to see

my grandmother’s skeletal face—

gaudy-blue eye shadow, that bright

red lip, and flat hair—

done all wrong

by men who never really knew her.

I escape into the wet

of a chilly afternoon, trying to avoid

everyone trying…

but family also needs

—they always need

forgiveness, tupperwared 

spaghetti, and more

of her time.

She is full from

our needing— 

the Catholic mass and us all together.

IV.

My wedges slush in the damp grass

as I approach the depression.

The dress coat I’m borrowing

from a crowded closet in her home

reeks of her cigarette smoke,

lifts her above ground.

I pull the black wool closed, wrap myself in

her spinach omelettes

and bedtime prayers

and phone calls during my lunch breaks

200 miles away

and her dream of a Sunday drive

in a cherry red corvette

and bending my knees lower each year

as her hugs got bonier and bonier,

yet were still all mine.

But what if trying 

to hold 

leaves me

nowhere

to go?

For now, we walk, 

her arm looped around mine, grasping.

And we find robin red breasts and zinnias.

We talk about what to make for dinner.