Let August Be August

In late July they tell me
to let August be August.
I turn on the August song,
put on the August clothes,
and read the August books.

I get anxious — again
they tell me. Let August be August.
I eat the August flesh,
adorn the August house,
become the August body.

By the time September
comes around, I am only August.
I let it be and be and be and
become the color of my skin,
tinted in shades of August.

My mother dies in August.
(Fall will never come.)
I will always be stuck in August —

Constance Mello (she/her) is a Brazilian writer living in California. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in The Ilanot Review, Brave Voices, Latinx Lit Mag, The Literary Canteen, The Bitchin' Kitsch, Sonora Review, bullshit lit, and elsewhere. She’s trying hard to turn all the sad things in her life into beautiful ones.