I sit in my car and my thighs are slowly cooked
by the smoldering black leather
which has stood the persistence
of the sun for almost eight hours.
The sun heatedly argues its point only to be
interrupted by the distressing presence of the clouds which
start to cry…
the
devil must be beating his wife
my
mother says.
Persephone tried to escape the heat,
Escape
the beating she was sure to get,
Cursing
the seeds that she ate naively,
I can hear the skin cells of my thighs protest the moment
they hit the seat.
Maeve, age 17
