FIRES AND FLOODS

​The night is hot as hell.
Really. The heatwave is so bad
 
that street signs are melting
like ice cream
 
and scorpions are taking dips
in the local pool, desperate
 
for a little relief. Last Tuesday,
I baked a cookie on the hood
 
of my truck, watched
the chocolate chunks bubble
 
under the sun.
I can’t touch the steering wheel
 
without the risk
of second-degree burns,
 
and the winds are so strong
that I’ve lost two sunhats
 
and the whole state smells of smoke.
News of the fires and floods
 
keeps pouring in: down south,
a city lies half-submerged in water,
 
and, here, dozens of houses burn.
Too hot for even shorts,
 
we strip off our dresses
and collapse on the grass
 
by the lake. When you turn
onto your stomach, I want
 
to touch the sweat pooling
in the valley of your spine.
 
I want to rub our bodies together,
make a house of flames
 
before this whole place goes
up in smoke. Fire, in my experience,
 
is a stronger force than water,
and we’re all branches
 
waiting to be burned.