No way to escape the incessant whining. That slow moan building to a crescendo then fading only to start anew. The seven year cicada. Or is it fourteen? The heat builds along with the din. Sluggishly moving days. Even in the dark hours no appeal is granted.
icy lemonade
sliding down my throat–
the glass against skin
sliding down my throat–
the glass against skin
by Adelaide B. Shaw
Millbrook, New York
Millbrook, New York
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