Louis Maraj

Sonnet to June


Summer, ashtray filled with purple flowers,
be the scent to which I pray, when damp heat
becomes a grouse, sweat, sin, and I, soured,
incompetent lover of dour beats
resilient insects drum on windows;
listen, this sacred space is earned and mine.
My home is a lease is a lease that grows—
a lease and a flower. O please be kind,
summer. Cover my skin, ceaseless, humid,
beautiful, terror. My newspaper-wet
throat pleas penance for Friday nights' fetid
patio smoking. You are a regret
I miss, best friend until I leave astray.
June, make me believe that ugly okay.