If it’s a season then I wish you were here. Do you like that? The heat is rising off all the darker surfaces, and I’ll cry if I want to. One hot day and the weather presses on my neck with all the stealth of Father Christmas, who if he knows one thing, surely knows the weight of shade, the cool art of pausing in a quiet, concealed place. You are my champions and I am your creature of the sun, stopping on the way to the party for a twirl and a picture. Now I know the reason lovers kept autograph books to catch their epigrams, held like insects under glass. What on earth to say. When you can’t swim, float. When you can’t float, walk on water.

Megan Clayton (she/they) writes and performs from Ōtautahi | Christchurch, where she works in higher education. Poems and essays by Megan have been published in journals and collections in Aotearoa and Australia.