High Summer

The pavement cracks and shimmers
below the magnifying glass of sun
that burns and drives the ants inside
as others free of work this day
lie down inside a case of cream
and scorch like hams around their seams.

It’s been a year now since your father died,
high summer marked his transition
from off this world to that, and yet questions
remain. Perhaps the African, with whom
the man claimed your father sought
forgiveness in the lord, would know
the answers that you seek. Often they come
to this: why do you love someone who says
such horrifying things? The day he said
that a shooter who took the lives
of Muslim congregants was just defending us,
or when he sneered at autistic children
and said they’re better off unborn?

The only answer is that he was your father,
and so excuses come. We each
of us are monstrous, at least
if we allow ourselves to be. And all of us are
forgotten. High summer carries on,
from last year to this, and soon the next.