elegy for july

It is the worst summer on record not because the woman up the street is dead--

I think it is more likely that she shot herself because July was already untenable.

When June withered and rotted on the vine we were left with nothing but the realization

that you can’t outrun something that’s saturated the air as heavy as humidity. There is only the slow dizzy crawl

out of the path of the sun, the endless laps I traced around the circle, noting 9806 only for its anthills

dead and vacant as the windows with their dust and their cobwebs.

I hover at the cracked front door as the cops descend like a clutter of blue-backed spiders

and wrap the street in a web of yellow tape tying up every unfortunate delivery man;

the husband on his knees in the driveway

the only one out immobilized of his own accord.

The rest filter through the lawn like restless ants searching for any crumb of an explanation

even as the coroner pens out something that could pass for cause of death: overabundance of stagnant air.

We all understand, even the ones who pretend they don’t. I can’t blame her, though I do begrudge her the commotion--

I had meant to take a walk today.