I don’t remember heat from my childhood. 
I grew up in the mountains where trees 
were plentiful,  and the creek was cool. 
Window screens that buzzed with insects 
when you turned on the bathroom light.
A porch swing to create a breeze, the screen 
door slamming behind me as I sought refuge 
from the stillness of the air inside.
I don’t remember heat being uncomfortable 
enough to interfere with daily activities until
I moved to a place that had air conditioning 
when I was a sophomore in college. 
Now as I find myself gravitating to in door 
projects to avoid the humidity,  I am acutely 
aware of my white ancestral entitlement,
thinking of millions of enslaved Africans 
toiling under the unrelenting rays of southern 
sun with no hope of a cool resting shade or
a refreshing splash of quenching well water.
I am at once immersed in my weakness.