Summer in Anaphora
It’s hot. Children in the fresh clipped grass, chant.
Sprinklers fly, It’s hot, layers of clothes peeled,
kicked under the porch’s skinny legs. It’s damn hot,
old men belly button sag, iced iced colas with a little rot,
rocking in the waves of ninety heat no breeze in sight.
It’s hot, Mike cracks eggs on the sidewalk cracks,
just to listen to the crackling white pop, just to watch
them snake and coil. It’s so hot, orange popsicles weak
and sweet, dribbling down chins, down grassy chests of
little Mo with the pumpkin frizz and big Mo with the pearly
noggin and buck teeth nodding it’s hot
so hot the mosquitoes have boiled
in Mama’s iced tea, sizzled into
a paste, it’s hot, don’t lick that
pole, Junior, your tongue will
melt and stick to it like
a December fever.
Where we learn about a poetic device called Anaphora—“employing the use of a repeated sound, word or phrase at the beginning of each line, or possibly, each stanza.
The anaphora commands our attention, the overall effect is musical. Reading it aloud can leave you dizzy and out of breath.