“Open Your Windows in Welcome” by Paige Lewis

August is split-shinned lurching
into your front yard. It laps
at the dog’s water and leaves
a layer of slime that shines metallic
and you know the bowl will never
rinse right. It pushes mangled birds
and browning foxglove through
the mail slot. You don’t need this.
You already learned the smells
of flowers through shower gels,
but the birds cave into you. How
careless were their mothers?
August comes in with the landlord,
who pushes the heaping mulch
from your doorway, surveys the black
spreading on your ceiling, and says,
There is mold in every home, what
makes yours worth crying about?