the asphalt in summer is so hot it burns bare feet, it returns to tar
the car dash radiating egg frying mirages
the ice cream truck languid, its tune pushing through the heat, its interior dripping with icicles
the skirt I wear has many layers of itchy netting
my church shoes are too small
one of the buckles is broken
I leave a forehead smudge on the car window as we drive past the ice cream truck up the hill towards the congregation
nobody worships the sun
perhaps that is why the sweat hisses on the sidewalk and the potato bug husk burns
She demands
and we sing hushed hymns in the dark.

[Featured Image: Nave and organ of the Cathédrale Sainte-Cécile d’Albi. Creative Commons license]