I invited the month of June to dinner.
She smelt of warm; wax paper and sawdust
and brought flowers, rose with honeysuckle tied in teeth
their scent filled the air like death.
Over wine she told us she won’t eat meat
roadkill decays dead quick in her, the gravel is too coarse.
As we chewed warm tarmac I watched her kiss my husband
she left popsicle stains and him wanting
Dessert, we had dust, we ate it with our eyes,
after she offered to wash up with her salt-crusted hair.
But she couldn’t possibly, we said, spilled sun works
like oil in water, in any case, it’s impolite.
Before she left, she asked after winter,
whom she’d never met.
This piece was originally published in Indigo Literary Journal.
Lily Sheehy (she/her) is an Oxford University English graduate currently living in Leeds, UK. She has most recently published in Indigo Literary Journal and The Oxford Blue. She much prefers editing others work to writing her own.