Late August
Here there is
dust and sun,
a heat unmoved
by the circling of a fan.
I line up our shoes,
keep the counters clean
and cook for a hunger larger
than the two of us.
Knees turned away
we eat on one plate
in silence.
When they cut down that tree,
the giant maple
holding our bed up
in a birdsong palm,
the world came crashing close.
Late August,
I wish for winter
I wish for that warm reason
to stay in bed a minute longer
for the cold floors and snow
that hurried us together
into that bright white morning—
-Marisa Beltramini