It is hot as hot can get, as if we are in some fallen pocket of sun, and you look at me like my dog looked at me begging for treats that last day before I gave him up forever rather than give him the love I didn’t have. He was better on a farm, I reasoned, knowing full well that farm was my dog word for death. Cold of me, yes, but cold is my me word for living. I tell you again how it’s too hot for romance, too hot for anything. Hot being my relationship word for over. After you leave, I turn on the AC, turn on the fan, and dunk myself in an ice tub. I slowly return to my me state. Slowly starting to shiver, goosebumps prickling my skin. Eventually, the water gets too cold and throws me out and back into a threadbare scratchy worn-out towel. Towel being my surrender word for love.
Francine Witte 🔈
About the Author
Francine Witte’s poetry and fiction have appeared in Smokelong Quarterly, Wigleaf, Mid-American Review, and Passages North. Her latest books are Dressed All Wrong for This (Blue Light Press), The Way of the Wind (AdHoc fiction), and The Theory of Flesh (Kelsay Books). She is flash fiction editor for Flash Boulevard and The South Florida Poetry Journal and an associate poetry editor for Pidgeonholes. Her chapbook, The Cake, The Smoke, The Moon was published by ELJ Editions in September 2021. She lives in New York City.