Heat, again

What did you call it?

The mummification of days.

Naming it helps?

I don’t know. Words evaporate from me.

Is this a historic heat, as the headlines proclaim?

They will recall the summer of ’23. A killer heat. Rain turned from the earth and flew upward. Mountain air grew frightened and did not descend to the valleys at night. Wounds bled dust. We kissed lips of cracked lake beds. No one cried for fear of losing tears.

Will you survive until autumn?

I don’t know who I will be when autumn arrives. I don’t know if it will arrive. I don’t know what it is. Myth, memory, long gone, like childhood.

That’s quite glum. Are you all right?

I am all wrong. There is light, there is heat. I am ephemeral. I am not quite here.

Would you like a glass of water?

You’re so practical.

I know I usually just ask questions, but you look a bit low.

That’s not a question.

Well. Sorry?

It’s OK. The heat assassinates us.

Another glass?

You lost your way in the corridors of the furnace.

No, right here. Can you hear me?

You first became a shimmer and didn’t know when you faded into hallucination.

Hello?

I am a fallen cactus.

OK, OK. Just let me know when you need something, will you?

Water will not quench our thirst.