High Noon
E. Peregrine
August is fool’s-gold bitter,
bleached hills carving their initials
into bare ankles: abrasive, damned,
yearning for fire or rain or blade or herd,
anything to cleave apart
bleached hills carving their initials
into bare ankles: abrasive, damned,
yearning for fire or rain or blade or herd,
anything to cleave apart
this state of being trapped, suffocating
between a good thing that’s gone too long
and relief that’s too far off. August aches
to be spent, clawing towards better days,
locust feet hooked on empty stalks
and September thoughts. Was it ever
truly good? Or did you shade your fear
under fruit and flowers, ephemeral
but not fleeting enough to save you,
and now the grass is too dry to rest
upon, like cheap wool studded by burrs
and spent wishes. This summer was
supposed to be different. They all were.
It’s too hot to do anything but burn
for an unrecognizable life.
Down by the creek there are still
frogs, and that’s worth scraping through
this dead field once more, at least once more,
thistles leering, to reach the myrtle shade,
and the smooth rocks, and high noon.
this dead field once more, at least once more,
thistles leering, to reach the myrtle shade,
and the smooth rocks, and high noon.
E. Peregrine (they/them) is a trans/nonbinary conductor, poet, teacher, and recent transplant to New England. Their writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Roanoke Review, smoke and mold, Bluestem Magazine, and elsewhere.
© Variant Literature Inc 2023