Every afternoon the palm-leafed sun
scorpios into the kitchen; it is
its summer house. Despite
the ceiling-to-floor blinds
we've hooked up, heat from
ceramic tiles grilled our skin.
My husband broke the glass-door
last year hoping to stop
the greenhouse effect. For a while
we pretended that the turning fan
of his newspaper during meals
was refrigeration enough.
In the midst of baked potatoes,
fried eggs and steamed fish,
the temperature rose.
When he left it was with
the pretext of skiing up north
with friends he did not have.
Afterwards he blamed me
over the phone for living too much
inside our kitchen. I accepted
his iced lies and signed
the papers he left
to chill inside our postbox.
These days I lounge in the terrace
where the magma-green of my basil
allows no room for cool spice.
The unrelenting sun sears dampness
from my lashes, dries my cheeks
with a stirring of sirocco.