Colleen Maynard

Humidity Clinging to Skin is not so far From Swimming

Driving to the park on muggy nights, fast food exhaust
pushes inside the family car.
Churro or corndog—that oily-vegetable-sweet.
The kids take deep drags,
reptilian brains spell out “safety.”

The Live Oaks are dark scribbles over the boulevards.
A dramatic cloud at sunset looks like a
mountain range in the distance;
the Spanish moss netting the Texas Lignumvitae
like skulking animals in the branches.

A tiny puppy pants in the parking lot,
tilted head and perky tail. Closer:
it’s an orange and white dog! Closer:
just a child’s abandoned stuffed animal.
It is a Whataburger’s takeout bag with a combusted box of tator tots.

Spill

We borrowed my friend’s cabin
for a weekend in July.
It was fun returning as an adult,
although I sort of missed bunking
in the boathouse as fifteen years olds.

My friend shibori dyes fabric in verdant tones
of indigo. Her table runners and tapestries adorn the cabin,
whole rooms of lapis lazuli.
Coming in from the beach
we find ourselves back in the clear lake.

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At 15, I wasn’t finessed in the art of compartmentalizing:
Where a cut came, I couldn’t let the scab heal.
Where a tragedy struck, I had to slice out the site.

I twist off a ripe fig from the tree leaning against the house.
It loosens easily, spittles
a white foam on my hand. Another twist.

Something has already tunneled into this one.
The bite-mark made a colloidal scar,
like a soft ruby coral blooming from its flesh.

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This morning we put classical radio on for the dog.
I couldn’t tell you the name of the song, but if you focus,
you can taste the water inside an air-conditioned room.