It is the worst summer on record
not because the woman up the street is dead—

I think it’s more likely that she shot herself
because July was already untenable.

When June withered and rotted on the vine
we were left with nothing but the realization

that you can’t outrun something that’s saturated the air
as heavy as humidity. There is only the slow dizzy crawl

out of the path of the sun, the endless laps I traced
around the cul-de-sac, noting 9806 only for its anthills

dead and vacant as the windows
with their dust and their cobwebs.

I hover at the cracked front door as the cops
descend like a clutter of blue-backed spiders

and wrap the street in a web of yellow tape
tying up every unfortunate delivery man;

the husband on his knees in the driveway
the only one immobilized of his own accord. 

The rest filter through the lawn like restless ants
searching for any crumb of an explanation

even as the coroner pens out something that could pass for
cause of death: overabundance of stagnant air.

We all understand, even the ones who pretend they don’t.
I can’t blame her, though I do begrudge her the commotion—

I had meant to take a walk today.

– Phoebe Cragon

Note: This piece was published in Pandora Magazine‘s Spring 2021 edition.