I know the wavelength of soft grasses in

eastern winds. Fireflies blink in the

balloon of a sundress, and when I set

the table and forget the napkin, you

capture            and      pin me            as a fraud.

But I know trees sound like oceans

in the shadow of a new moon.

July is fresh bronzed and unconditioned

fed with berries and barbecues, summer

vacations of lasers in the eye and sore

spines, and you dare to question

what    I           am       worth?

It’s July—I am a statue housing

a robin’s nest in my elbow and the warmth

of my parents in my chest.

Taking up space, in debt to field mice

incapable of trapping.

Do not call yourself comfortable to imply

that      I          am       not.

– Leah Skay