Brooklyn Heat

Thinking back to that June afternoon,
the medals of coolness rise

to the top of memory like cream:
the park’s recipe of shade & breeze,

the surprise of watermelon,
& the celestial spray of the fountain

we stood close to.
I kept stretching my arms wide,

pushing my belly, hot as everything else,
into the mist. Underneath the separate

sprays was Poseidon, his beard
like twelve ropes conversing.

Looking at my companions,
I could not say with conviction

whom I loved most.
The library stood nearby & lampooned

me with a gleaming
of columned creatures in gold

that bared a deep and stately knowledge
unknowable to any of us

sweaty, splattering humans.
Therefore I, neither Greek nor godlike,

exhaled as my dream self jumped
into the arctic spume of the fountain

and there, unbodied & wild,
I showered down beside Poseidon, a rainbow of cool.