Ashish Kumar Singh
​

It seems like the hottest day of the year, 

though I believe it is not. The earth, since morning, 

has stopped on its axis, as have the clouds 

in the almost white sky. Outside, nothing moves—

the trees are stilled with shock by the heat, 

and the birds barely look alive as they sit 

on electric wires, their shadows like dark miniatures 

on the ground. With our backs sticking to the flowered 

bedsheet, I listen as he talks about ways to cool 

our bodies this summer. Yesterday, on the news, 

we all heard as cities broke records by raising 

temperatures as high as 52 °C. He turns and touches 

my neck, his fingers still visible from earlier. 

Since we are all animals, we sometimes forget 

to be tender with ourselves in the moment of heat. 

I confess, I do not know his name, 

and I bet he does not remember mine. When he says, 

I can’t breathe and goes to stand at the window 

that opens on the main road, I detest 

this distance, this declaration of our future. 

On days like these, I could fool myself into believing 

that I desire nothing else but this—

a man turning upon hearing his name, 

 

                                               then tongues mine.