is awake early because the light is too stubborn
to stay behind blinds, birds already so loud
I’m squinting, June is buzz, whirr, the window AC unit
full blast but still, June tosses and turns, awake again

and June smells like swamp, like sweat, like little bits of armpit
hair stuck to the razor, the sink, the elbow, June spits
dry shampoo but nothing can swallow the grease, June
reminds me of my younger years in the minutes before

work calls, June wipes the makeup off my glazed forehead,
bathroom mirror glare, water cooler stream, June sun
shines through my office window like a greenhouse, June tells
the coworkers get out it’s too hot I can’t think and June

walks me home past the gas station, stomps 
styrofoam slushies into fresh grass cuttings, haunts
my stovetop, slips through the brita and ice tray,
stalks, showers, salts, and whisper pricks my skin
until all I feel is slick behind my knees.