Sigh, and lean back against the day, I thought,
the day will catch and hold you.
Today is like a dune, I thought, with bulk you can trust
beneath the shifting and the settling.
The day will hold you. But no –
The day presses itself around me, insistent
as a sweaty nightclub pest, molds itself
to all my contours, seeps into the creases
of my flesh. Days like this lick me, stick me to the spot,
force me open, push my softness through
the surface, like slicing a fig.
On days like this my anger is feeble.
Too weary to flare, it curls up instead
in the space my body makes when I lie
on my side. Stunned in my clammy sheet,
I forget that I care. Today, dumbed by heat,
we are all panting animals, all mouth and meat.
the day will catch and hold you.
Today is like a dune, I thought, with bulk you can trust
beneath the shifting and the settling.
The day will hold you. But no –
The day presses itself around me, insistent
as a sweaty nightclub pest, molds itself
to all my contours, seeps into the creases
of my flesh. Days like this lick me, stick me to the spot,
force me open, push my softness through
the surface, like slicing a fig.
On days like this my anger is feeble.
Too weary to flare, it curls up instead
in the space my body makes when I lie
on my side. Stunned in my clammy sheet,
I forget that I care. Today, dumbed by heat,
we are all panting animals, all mouth and meat.
Mary Ford Neal (she/her) is a writer and academic based in Glasgow in the UK. She has poems recently published and forthcoming in Ink, Sweat & Tears, Dust Poetry Magazine, and Capsule Stories. She tweets about poetry and other things @maryfordneal.