Hothouse

 
Thumbing through a book from 1915, I marvel 
at the nearly floor-length hair of girls and women.

They sit on the stairs, one in front of the other,
plying tortoise shell combs. 

I can almost smell the fragrance of coconut oil
worked through their blue-black tresses.
 
Their fingers are cool and delicate, intimacies
keyed into each wrist.

Summer isn't upon them yet, but is approaching.

They haven't shed their elaborate layers of clothing—
shawls on top of heavy blouses, voluminous skirts.

Today I heard someone wish for rain. 

I admit, when the air is humid, it's like a hand
pressing down on my brain to see how soon I'll yield.

I long for cool, still nights, talking crickets.

It feels nice to run my hands over yellowed keys,
though the piano is severely out of tune.