Ice in August by Jennifer Copley
can believe such heat.
She wears her coolest dress
but it still glues itself
across her shoulder-blades.
People faint in the streets,
are carried home
to drink the water dry.
As she scrubs and sweeps
she dreams of ice -
in her hair, in her ears,
on the back of her neck.
Last night she sat up late,
sewing her dress.
Pins slipped from her fingers.
The thread was damp with sweat,
no need to lick.
He badgers but she won't agree
until the weather changes,
until there is ice -
ice on the rims of carriage wheels,
ice on the lily bouquet,
ice on his knuckles
as he hands her down,
ice in needle-thin stitches
hanging from the church porch.