During Hot Season

The sun
has been pressing down on us
for weeks,
its two thousand trillion
trillion
tonnes
driving us to the ground,
sealing up lungs
and minds.

In the market, the brown-dirt ground burns white,
the bananas turn brown,
the flies swarm.

The buzz of motorcycles rises
and falls
and leaves behind only
heat.

There is sweat on my face, under my shirt, on my skin,
running down my chest, my arms.

In the afternoon the sky falls slowly
pushing down harder
threatening and promising rain
that does not come.

Finally the sun sets,
taking its weight from us,
and the earth and our homes
leak out the heat
so the night thickens with it.

And fans whir and buzz
and the sweat rises from our bodies or sinks into our sheets,
until the sun
rises again.

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