Dying of Heat
60 in January, we’re fucked & we know
it but we’re out here. Two year old, conductor’s
cap & riding a toy car up the hill, his
mom sometimes having to push through
the steep parts, six friends at a hot
dog stand, Anya in a leopard jacket, a
beekeeper full white on a motorcycle,
it’s nice so we’re out here, the pavement
rocks glistening, every jeep window
down & fluffy monsters in the back, we
60 in January clothes, out here & dying
in greenery unashamed & out of style, out
of season, we joke, out here, hot dog dribbles
in our beards, bearded ladies & men &
shapeshifted coats, shedding skin persons,
60 living to 30 til we’re flooded breath,
til the coasts sink the layers on our apartment
floors, we don’t need them, we are out here,
scared but trying the sun, daring it leave
us aflame, shit, already we’re out of ideas,
companies burn coal with homemade
suns & we sit in city hall, out here, 60
years sitting and not an ounce of power
gained, but we glory glory the warmth
in our knuckles, pounding, singing.
Sam Herschel Wein (he/they) is a lollygagging plum of a poet who specializes in perpetual frolicking. They are an MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Tennessee-Knoxville. Their third chapbook, Butt Stuff Flower Bush, is faggotly forthcoming from Porkbelly Press. He co-founded and edits Underblong. Recent work can be found in Split Lip Magazine, Waxwing Mag, and Shenandoah, among others. Gaze at their beautiful website at www.samherschelwein.com.
