A First Week of August

August 1:

My amaryllis died, blooming once and then outgrowing its pot, cracking even plastic and pouring soil on the floor, but resurrection lilies rise like ropes dancing for a magic flute.

August 2:

Sheath dresses look great on slim frames, petite or tall but hipless, women without rounded bursae, sacs filled with fluid inflamed or merely bloated like an early morning face waking up after pizza and beer.

August 3:

I’d like to drain my hip bursae, if only to wear those sheath dresses hanging in my back closet, their rigid seams too conventional for even my tentative calendar, subject to change.   

August 4:

She sees only flash cuts of August one more bean harvest from a browning raised bed, rotating crops behind warped wood and a panting dog that looks almost as old as you. 

August 5:

Not much happens in eight seconds, the time it takes to answer a phone, long enough only for almost three jars of Nutella to sell or a rider and his bull to win.

August 6:

Milkweed bugs found my milkweed this year, orange and black like chocolate layered candy corn preparing pods for a promised winter under snow. 

August 7:

I didn’t think about oil until we moved to Kawkawlin and watched gas flares light a frozen field of pumpjacks, blank paper under flame.