Ariel Gordon


It’s angry-wasp August,
black & mustard assholes
hovering at my elbow, attempting

my open mouth. I feel like we lost
a month to wildfires & drought.
The forecast said there was

a 100% chance of rain. It’s pissing
rain now, but the news
says it’s too late for most

farmers, even as I collect my share
of golden zucchini at the farmer’s market,
wasps licking

everyone’s ice cream.
Last night, I bled through
my new buttercup linen-blend

pants at the lawn-chair shiva
for my friend’s mother, darkness
a sweater wrapped

around my matronly hips. What if
my enthusiasm for the world
is misplaced?

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