Watching A Thunderstorm From My Back Porch, My Daughter Turns To Me And Says
Matthew Merson
July summer feels different than June summer.
In July, thunder swings wider and lightning
with no rain means it’s time to dance.
Blackberries become giant thumbs, bruising
your hands and bellies. Corn on the cob
smells sweeter than pumpkin pie.
Watermelon juice distills to laughing gas.
Crab apples make the best baseballs,
showering you with honeybee wine.
Shade from the oak tree is cooler in July,
smothering you with a secret blanket
that forces you to dream. A carnival
sets up in the field across from Kroger.
It’s always too hot to go during the day,
so we go when the lights come on.
When smothered in neon glow,
elephant ears and lemonade make old men
forget to look at their watches.
We always see our porch lights
from the top of the ferris wheel.
July air is lathered on so thick
you can see it as it moves
through your lungs and out your skin,
soaking the back of your shirt
as it finds its way back home.
Lighting bugs: fat and slow,
shower the grass as they float
without their reading glasses.
The moon drips like warm butter,
and its reflection on the lake
is a playlist for the peepers.
I smile as she talks about secrets
I never told her and regrettably outgrew.
We watch as night settles in,
thunderstorm hovering over the next town,
moths congregating around our back porch light.