Hi, all, I’m in the process of winding down a current work-in-progress novel, so I haven’t had the dedicated time to write some awesome flash fiction. For today, I’ve decided to share a poem I wrote back in September. (Which is why it’s going to seem out-of -place now that we’re in November.) It’s one of my first stabs at poetry, so please pardon the beginner-level rhyme and rhythm. I’m working on revising this poem, so any/all feedback on it would be much appreciated!

This September Heat

It’s a numbered plastic bag, this heat.

Ninety, ninety-five, a century

Printed on its transparent taut sheet

Doming the September sky bleary,

Suffocating, too, the land below.

Now, like lungs our trees unfurl and flurry

Leaves in desperation to swallow

Cool, clean air. The bag, though, twists and hurries

To stifle. Now like its ghostly floating

Cousins littering limbs, this sky-long bag  

Vines itself and chokes the trees. Gloating,

Our foe tells us not to try (as it sags)

To make dimpled dents in plastic

Hard as this. With panicked frantic

Words we shout for rescue, our mouths spastic.

Now the bag becomes mad and manic

And ties its small handles, “U”s upside

Down around our heads. The numbers grow:

Hundred, hundred-five. We reside

In a tight polyethylene show.

Plastic, some say, never decomposes,

Never dies while trapping misery.

Pupils wide, our heads are drooping roses

Bagged in a gag bouquet. So we

Spin small lies, like: This will sometime end

Or: Who needs to breathe or see

Anyway? The bag is our best friend.

Besides, it isn’t as if we can flee.  

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