SWEATING (SOUTH FLORIDA)
ABEL M. FOLGAR
Lord in this eternal wheel of summer you will find me sweating;
regardless of idiotic smile, dry thoughts of penance—I’ll be sweating.
The bright, clean trickle of beads as they chase the topography of
skin a momentary cooling; a welcome refreshment of salty sweat.
Alarming this exocrine discharge; robotically efficient and wholly
human—a brackish moisture, almost a loyalty by way of sweating.
These reactions—outside work merciless, running errands in
the bodega, that pregnancy scare from a misread text; sweaty.
Anoint the respect that it was in a previous act of love prompting
the message, the errands, the work—that you accept the sweat.
What mass to hold but one over fire; the even grill of entrañas,
eggplant slices, and morcillas a relaxing lodge; a spiritual sweat.
This amor fati—necessary and annoying, ceaseless and indefatigable
in its sporadic fatigue; a perpetuum mobile of flues firing sweatily.
How we’ve come to accept the gospel of this peninsula’s tip a
single season climate singularity is a losing battle, a sealed sweatbox.
Lord, of the few clues that can prove the reality of my humanity;
these damp circles, the cross’ line down my back, why this sweating?