A place where the clouds were cotton-dry
and the air too stiff to swallow,
so we left ourselves to hollow
way out there in the sandbox.
Inside we played as if we were young,
hiding behind chairs and curtains,
though I was never quite certain
that I would ever be found;
perhaps I'd acclimate to the walls!
My burnt bones could become door-frames
and the sole remnant of my name
would be the doorbell ringing
from the preacher-man on the front porch,
here again to tell us we're wrong,
to condemn and muffle our song,
"Shala leia maleida!!"
In the soft folds of your dress, I'm safe,
though in such heat you seem duller,
as if sweating out your colour
into the basement shadows.
Days later we return to the world
to reclaim our ill-fitting skins;
for you and I to give up sins
now that our summer's over.