August Afternoon

We dance in
the heat of the kitchen.
Van Morrison plays lazily
from the living room,

me,
paper thin sun dress,
void of the undergarments
that would only cause
lines of sweat in already
wrinkled skin,
catching the breeze between
bare legs;

you,
with the grease still in
the creases of your hands,
holy jeans hanging low
on bare waist,
crooked smile plays
on parted lips;

we dance.

You would not take
no for an answer,
would not acknowledge
my casual stumble
over your bare feet,
toes somehow chilled
despite the summer heat.

We sway across kitchen
counters singing along
to every word,
hair sticking to temples,
mouth dry save for
the song on tongue.

You tell me I am
beautiful and, in that
rare delusion of August,
I believe you.

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