(image source)

The outside heat

always creeps

inside me

like flies into an apartment.

My bones are wrapped in felt blankets.

We try to steal cold from tomatoes and mozzarella

And now it’s time for ice cream

….As it was a few hours ago.

A small delight.

More sweaty clothes are washed and hung to dry

in this dryer we’re currently inside.

Each morning is an expedition

into

the air already

thick and heavy

Heaving back up the hill with emergency provisions

We’ve installed a wading pool in the bathroom for my son.

At night I stand in the kitchen,

actually glad to wash dishes.

I let the cool water splash and soothe where it can.

In the building across from us

people sit on their balconies, silhouettes framed by their apartments’

warm orange light — might as well be flames.

The thermometer reads

32 degrees (Celsius, bien sûr)

but the real proof of the heat:

even the true Parisians

are wearing short sleeves.

is a writer & worrier. She lives in Paris with an eccentric Frenchman & a delightfully weird little boy. Besides them, she loves books, history, & cookies.

is a writer & worrier. She lives in Paris with an eccentric Frenchman & a delightfully weird little boy. Besides them, she loves books, history, & cookies.