Heat Stroke
All I wanted today, watching
you tend the garden
in the humid hunger of August
was to make you a perfect glass of water
like a perfect martini.
I went inside
where the refrigerator had frozen over,
my thumbs digging into the ice.
I poured the water like a
soothing voice.
I did not sense the dancers
of your spirit and body break stride.
Your feet turned inward on
the parched surfaces
of the yard. You fainted in the flowers
and felt that they held you
and swore they spoke the holy
language.
You fell near the thin legs of crickets
sparkling in the grass. And I held your head
as if it were a huge blossom,
the ambulance lights
flashing in a rapture you thought was yours,
green then red, the dancers circling
together again, behind all that I saw in your eyes.
[From David Cazden’s book, Moving Picture (Word Press, 2005)
An earlier version of the poem also appeared in Conspire as Sun Stroke.]
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.