August sister

In sycamore top hats they hail my attention. When they appear we celebrate,
I play them new tunes, we forget their duration brief; forget in a future day they wave wet scarves goodbye. Instead we renew our voluntary vows.

The old man’s sadist sister already treks the reptilian wind, sweet cakes for me, wicked plots for them, she’ll gouge their crying eyes with their sappy fingers she deftly pulls off one by one. Turn me away, distract with palettes of pain. Assure it’s just a ploy, petty attention whores, no more.

But today they wave scarves, tonight they’ll whistle in the rain; try to pretend; delude ourselves that this time the old man and his sadist sister reroute to the ruins, sweetly acrid bones build moldy mausoleums, bury fossilized antennae in the desert,
sleep with gods.

Now, the sister’s daughter is no sadist. She is a lover, a comforter, a buttercup. Midnight she stirs, turns on low the fans. Brings lemon meringue and cocaine flakes. Last night I lay awake, she cuddled near, and I wondered if she’ll become her mother, upon our voluntary vows.