after baking all day in the summer sun
the wind rustles over the pieces
and flops them on the ground;
this is summer, this is the spirit
in which my nephews entered,
cursing god and mother alike for the brutal heat
and torrential rains
Isabella, come to me
on Friday: the rain is supposed to stop
and the heat is to subside—
cool me off like the juice of the sweet pomegranate
that you are.
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