loyd.net

They say it's not the heat
It's the humidity
But I can tell you—
It's the heat.

I've been in dry West Texas
Baking in that oven
Where the scorching wind blows in your face
Where there is nowhere to escape—
It is no more pleasant
That the soggy summers of New Orleans
Where every year as a child
I thought I would melt away and die,
Where I built callouses on my feet
That could tolerate the sidewalk only
Long enough to dash to the next patch of grass.
I remember the summer our air conditioner died
All the repair shops were backlogged;
We bought a smaller window unit
And lived in the front two rooms.
Living room became my parents' room
Dining room shared its function with my sleeping quarters.
We scurried back to kitchen or bath
Like cockroaches in the middle of the night
Rushing back to our hiding place
Avoiding heat or light.
I remember breaking out in heat rash;
I remember blisters on my fingers;
I remember leaving early to go to school
Catching the (only) streetcar because the bus did not run that early.
It is a good thing we moved next spring—
Surely one more summer would have finished me off!
In piney East Texas the heat was not so bad,
We spent most of our time on the screened-in porch
While inside candle tapers would contort
Bending in gentle curves with odd shapes.

I always hated summer;
The older I grow, the more I hate it.
As an earnest student
I welcomed fall and the return of classes.
Always, I looked forward to cooler weather.
In college, summer meant I was even more broke than usual
And had to endure living with my parents again.
(Though, true, I broke that pattern
Once, I spent a summer in Indiana
Where the weather was actually bearable!
And once, though it was hot
I was free of responsibility—
Between schools—
Though I had no money and little air conditioning
I had much fun.)

Now, my work is busiest in summer
And though I'm not in school
I miss the attendant activity
Concerts, meetings,
Even TV shows.

I hate summer.

[dance of the spheres] For Signs & Seasons long hot summer