A long journey of loving
A response to the poem "The Summer
We Longed For Comes"
Oil on canvas
35 x 24"
The Summer We Longed
by Maj Ragain
It is ninety five degrees in the cottage kitchen,
July, not a breath of air.
My wife complains,
“Sweat is coming out
of me everywhere.”
Her shoes are full of sweat.
I can hear it in her step.
I have always listened for news
of whatever is passing by:
a comet’s dust, a tattered season,
a grease monkey’s jabber,
the signal of her callused heel.
I smell the musk of a drunken priestess.
She plays upon the windchime
my noisy bones make.
I say this as plain as I can.
Sweat is the tears of cold stars.
Sweat fuels the pearled engine of the mollusk.
Sweat is the magic marker on the ghostly chalkboard.
Sweat is a newborn child in the halogen family.
Sweat is the ink of saints.
Sweat is a holy bead
at the back of my wife’s knee.