on the banks of the blue ridge parkway

by Thomas Costello

Summer came
and brought a cloudless simmering pulse.
You went
And took with you
some of the things I needed.

If you look up "hot" in the dictionary
there is a North Carolina summer
burning up the pages
wrinkled with humidity.
It is so hot that everyone leaks sticky drops
that hang suspended in the air
and cling to your skin when you take out the trash.
Everyone pants with their mouths open
so the breeze smells like beer and fruit salad.

At the park
next to our house
chickens listlessly round the bases
waddling like weekend warriors
kicking up boiling infield dust
while outside the fence
the mariachi block party
which is held solely for mariachis and their proud families
is letting loose a blaring polka opus
en español.
And despite the trumpet players' struggle
to grip their instruments with slippery salted hands
or to play with shut eyes to avoid the horns' brassy reflection
the symphony is hailed as a critical success
by the pasty reporter
under an umbrella
eyeing his moles.
The children tend to the tamales
whose scent soaks the air
and travels into my window
so that my sweat tastes like chipotle pollen.
I went to rinse it off
but you took the tub.

Out-of-towners might imagine that it is more temperate in the mountains.
I wonder where the hell they go that idea.
By the second week in July
the asphalt melts and
the roads are a swampy petroleum mess.
The Blue Ridge Parkway turns into a tar river.
Everyone builds rafts
out of old doors and empty propane tanks
and every year
on the first Sunday in August
there's a tar-raft regatta.
And every year
for at least the last ten
Sam Simon, a retired Highway Patrolman from Brevard
wins by a long shot.
I had thought about entering
but I remembered that you took the broom
so I just watched from the tar river banks
without an oar
as the old sergeant surfed to another victory
and another year of fitful sleep
under the gaze of the taxidermied squirrel trophy
dreaming of next August.

It was much easier to deal with the heat last year.
We shared summer duties.
I would fill one hundred glasses of water
and put them around the house
so we could always have a drink.
You oiled the fan
which squawked like a mockingbird
with a speech impediment
so that we could sleep.
I pointed a speaker out the window
and played Tumbling Dice
so that the trees would be inspired to grow bigger
and we could fit in the shade.
You shaved the cats.
I made frozen lemonade.
You cut the sleeves off my t-shirts
while I blew on your damp forehead.
And I remember
how you would tuck the sides of your skirt
in the bottom of your underwear
to cool your crispy legs.
I took out the photo box
so I could remember this a little better
but you had cut out all the you's
and taken them.
But I still remembered
that you took all the glasses
so I poured myself a bowl of water
used all the fan oil on the clippers
and set to shaving the cats.

Now summer is gone.
I no longer have to swim
through the thick southern air
or smell the collective pant
of tainted slaw.
The mariachi band is on Late Night
(gracias a nuestras madres)
and the chickens are in the tamales.
Most of the rafts were pulled out of the parkway
although some are stuck
left by teenagers or alcoholics
when the pavement cooled
causing some minor traffic accidents for the October leaf gawkers.
The cats are stubbly
and I've managed to sew my sleeves back on
although some of the left ones are missing.
It's made official
when the weatherman has called for the first frost
and as everyone rushes to the store
to buy bread and milk.
I think about chopping some wood
when I remember
you took the axe.