Cynthia Parker

Air so heavy it sticks to skin
Like cling wrap as
She peels the sticky-sweet
Peaches for dinner.

Hard to tell if
That pesky buzz is
Gnat, fly, or blood-sucker;
Singly sweetly in her ear.

The wood floor creeks
With the step-slide-step
Of a Southern waltz;
She twirls in her apron.

Screen door slams –
Home again; peck on
The cheek. Follow-up with
A slap – laundry’s not done.

Tears stain her face as
He snores beside her.
Smell of sweat drowns
Her hope for tomorrow.