Ceridwen Hall

august

these unrelenting weeks; everything grown sweet and dull. A lethargy sets in. I am tired of being the reliable one, that reflective surface—what we see is what we expect, what we remember. It’s useless to claim anger, worse to act on it. The crickets drill without pause while the Internet suggests blockbusters, easy reading. All the recipes for ice cream involve the preliminary step of scalding milk. When someone who ought to know better asks the usual irrelevant—are you seeing anyone and what inspires you—I could argue a friendship is not a checklist. Instead I hedge and pivot, dream small animals are placed in my care. I kill them. It’s pure neglect, a humid front. But such errors accumulate over time. Plants wilt and lawns fade. We throw rocks in the pond, wait for the heat to break