I invited the month of June to dinner,
her smell was warm, wax paper and sawdust.
She brought flowers, rose with honeysuckle, tied in teeth
their smell filled the air like death.
Over pea soup, June told us she won't eat meat
roadkill decays too fast in her, and gravel is too coarse.
As we chewed warm tarmac, I watched her kiss my husband
she left a popsicle stain and him wanting
for dessert we had dust, we ate it with our eyes,
after she offered to do the dishes with her salt-crusted hair
But she couldn't possibly, spilled sun works like oil in water,
and besides, it's impolite.
Before she left, she asked after winter,
whom she'd never met.