thejunkyardprocession revamped | Page 58

tom kwei Kusadasi In the squinting distance, windmills spin. Behind them the sun taunts their stalks. This is a heat. This is a heat that hides in thighs, settles in eyelids. Branched out from the balcony below me, a carpet dries defeated on the white tiles. Spiders too scared to move slowly burn in the thick felt. This is a heat that nudges you awake, that rests a palm on your mouth and waits. Up above I watch the pool as the winds begin. Indentations skim like fingerprints. Tiny tongues lap the submerged ladder rungs. This is a heat that makes my skin itch from the inside. 58