Humus

This year, it’s taken awhile
to believe
wary eyes cocked
to oscillating skies
uneasy, but secretly harboring
the truth all Albuquerque folk know
about frost dates and April,
we toe tested in the shallow end
summer came like a pool bully
pushed us from behind
into the 150 proof,
gold tooth-blinding breath
of a Costco parking lot
but somehow…it doesn’t feel like summer.

Was almost convinced by
the cheat grass hiss
the coronation of mulberry-bruised lips
the Rio bumped and strained,
crept beneath to witness
the restless wicks
of velocity and tailpipes
raging Second Street
but, it still doesn't feel like summer.

Summer is a storm of branches
cracking skies
sidewalk tsunamis and stick nest hair
the vato whistles of fireflies
from raspberry thickets
and paint-weary porches
the sweaty milk of corn shucked
and grass cut.

Summers archived
with the humidity of youth
so I need a vernal story
to talk me through equatorial lines
a plow to break sutured concrete
and the false skin of old sand
resurface the fertile profiles
of solstice dreams.


Yasmeen Najmi

© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi