What I Do in August

 

by Donna Vorreyer

 

 

You were once as much a part of me

as blood, a new kind of cell. Now

I search for you everywhere - at

the dilapidated silo, at the bottom


of a single-malt. Behind the church,

they have repaved Main Street, painted

new crosswalks to give me boundaries.

Still, on each warm night, I wander until


I arrive at our old house, pull your book

from my jacket, find you in each space.

You are a mark that will not wash from

my skin, a hush rustling inside my skull.