PICNIC BASKET

CLAY D. MATTHEWS

The fish fryer is hot enough
to cook a lug nut. July again,
and we’re drinking beer fast,
trying to outrun the sun’s warm tongue
that heats everything like a cast-iron griddle
the size of an acre.

It’s humid here—
walking becomes more like swimming,
a breast-stroke through the thick air,
swallowing mouthfuls of summer,
the taste of cut hay, locusts,
full moons rising.

There’s enough memory here
to feed us all
beside red potato salad, pass it
to your left. It’s fruit flies and corn on the cob,
a season wrapped up
in a red and white checked tablecloth,
tied on an oak limb and carried away.

Catfish sizzles in peanut oil, there’s no hush
when the hushpuppies fry. The world is loud
and getting hotter. Our cautious teeth
on the golden cornmeal. Our anticipation
of the steaming white within.