August

Stevanna Skay

The letting of sweat and tears

reminds me it was the summer

spent too many weeks transfixed

by the weight encircling my finger.

(My finger, my watch, my calendar.)

The name on my mailbox, then,

the only evidence there was ever

him in my doorway, whose presence

might be felt, on occasion,

in my deepest sleep, dreaming

whether he had come or gone.

In time, mind folds over what is real, lets go:

The nameless woman’s voice

on the other end softens.

His ring sits motionless,

abandoned in the kitchen drawer.

I think he is in Oregon.

It was on my telephone, a flashing red light

I pressed to hear

a recorded busy signal.

II

In another place,

Four Seasons bounce in echo

off kitchen tile. In August heat,

…Sherri, baby, won’t you come out tonight?

we are dancing. I try not to step

on his toes.

            …Sherri, baby, you better ask your momma…

I already have, in a way.

She reminds me

of promises made,                                                                          

not knowing who tells me I am beautiful, or

which one will not leave me, chasing perfume falling

from the swishing of satin skirts:

            He was always such a nice boy.

            What you’re doing is wrong.

I have admitted to nothing.

(Meanwhile, the nice boy out West.)

In my mind, I continue the memory

of my dance with the new boy.

There are no shades to draw.

In the dark outside his kitchen window,

was anyone watching?

I trace his name, transparent,

in real time, on the glossed-over

tabletop.

She darts that look

my way, knowing,

while I avoid her eyes.