The First July

by Corinne Caraway

The First July

My hip fumbles with the socket 
as I carry us up and down the hills of Harlem 
while July expands between the rivers 
to outline everything in humidity. 
I feel your body learning how to sweat 
through every piece of clothing 
no matter how breathable 
the material promises to be, 
and I grieve again the linen dresses 
hanging listless in my closet 
with their inadequate accessibility 
to the parts of me you need most. 
Instead, I adjust one of four skirts 
on rotation as we wait for the subway. 
You dip towards the kind of sleep 
I haven’t gotten since I was your age, 
until the palm-sized fan keeping us 
from sticking all the way back together 
gives out under overuse and we find 
the one train full of people and empty of air.
I feel the last of my gratitude evaporate 
as I lean us against the door, 
but then you reach up to hold my face 
and smile at me until we make it home. 

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xoxo

Corinne

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