July 19: “Rasp”

The heat rises in distorted gold
waves around fire
but without fire,
shimmering, twisting

 

anything seen through it.
The heat rises, rasping
the air it rises through,
scuffing the surface,

 

if the air has a surface.
The tall summer
field is the keeper
of secrets. Lie down

 

and forget your body, forgive
your body its bad cradle,
its brokenness.
Lie down and listen

 

to the rasp, to heat sweep
the pale, dry grass as if
it were your own
breathing, as if the field
you’ve pressed your shape into
is a broom in reverse,
a broom being
swept by the wind.

— Maggie Smith

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