The Cold Bead, Or, Just Moving

Even in the shade, the air

just hangs, thick and warm,

like a damp cloth you can’t

quite wring out.

Walking from the bus stop,

a few blocks,

and then it started.

First, just one. A cold bead,

right there, between my shoulder blades,

a sudden, icy pinprick

that tracked a slow, deliberate path

down, down, following

the line of the bra strap,

a tiny, wet worm.

And then another,

and another, prickling now

at my hairline, behind my knees,

a dampness spreading,

even my scalp.

Like the city itself is breathing

out through my skin.

And I’m just standing here.

No, I’m not even standing,

I’m just, you know,

moving.

Slowly.