August 2022

August 2022

August has eaten us. August has cracked us open, used its teeth and tongue to get at our marrow. August assumes we’re all edible.

It’s an understandable mistake. What isn’t edible now?

At the base of the mountain a neighbor barrels over his corn stalks chasing down a skunk. He brings us three ears. The girl eats one and leaves two in a basket to mold and listen to my stories while she’s gone.

Mildew comes for the books. The deer comes for the apples. The bear comes for the scraps, and not for a fight the girl doesn’t want to have.

It is my month. I am built for this: the late summer, the first deep breath of fall. I am the apple house and I am owed some apples.

It is my mouth. Don’t tell the girl. It's my mouth, open and swallowing everything. I won’t tell the girl. She’ll either open up for the airplane or she won’t.

You can lead a person to abundance, but you can’t make them eat.

She lights a candle at her desk most nights to write and when she blows it out, I make a wish. I wish for August again. And again. August again. Swimming weather and hard rain. Old vines and final grapes. Wheat, in solitary stalks.

It is august, and we eat each other. Swallowing gasps from our open, panting mouths.

It is august, we eat and are eaten.

the apple house