August mud clings to our ankles
like the skies just opened for a second.
Didn’t plan on raining but a little slipped
out so we can stop getting cuts
on dry weeds and smelling cinnamon
starch air dried like fourth grade.
We are so tired of being in this month.
It feels like bike rides might not
last so long with seat worn ass and bone—
can’t wait to dunk
under warm water, inland lake, smell
like fresh organism. Fresh water means
no salt not no bacteria, but we don’t mind.
Fresh water means towel off, swimmer’s ear
and new flip flops slippery with sunblock.
We don’t call it that. We don’t wear it anyways.
Joseph Felkers lives and writes in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His work appears or is forthcoming in Juked, Rust + Moth, and SOFTBLOW, among others. He edits for Adroit, and scoops ice cream to get by.
Euphony Journal 