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Mens Sextilius: Now, August

If I could’ve seen a horse in the senate, or watched Gregory XIII
Look at the stars and number our days, maybe I would
Be content. But I was born in the wrong generation—and I know, I know—
Don’t we all say that? Mama wants to be born in 1940. Daddy wants to see the
Spanish Armada fall. But no, not me, I want to live before 700 BCE.
It’s stupid, really, the way men decide our days, the touch of their grimy
Fingers cracking the clock’s arms and moving our advent calendars later and later
until we forget about the chocolate inside; until we live 52 weeks and forget when
January and February were not some cold trophies and when August was the not
the eighth month. What sense does that make? OCTOber—octo, octo, eight—
October should be the eighth month. And I still mess up when I write 8 for October when 8
is August, my beautiful August, the month of peridot and onyx, the month of the
gladiolus and poppy flowers, the month of beauty, strength, love, and family...
Maybe August is the month of Women. Maybe Numa Pompilius didn’t consider how
mens sextilius, month six, is simplicity, is what used to be August for the women.
Why did he take it away? Mens sextilius was mine. Is it because my ovaries are
hidden in my body like two grapefruits instead of hanging down below my waist?
Because the oranges on my chest make it so I cannot be considered ‘the great’ or ‘the venerable’ like the *MEN* in mens sextilius. The male sex taking over and complicating things
because I am not allowed to be an Augustus. Sure, I am no Augustus, but if I could be! If you, Numa, gave me the chance and returned my August. If Julius Caesar took back those ten added days, if Augustus Caesar did not need to cast his name on every little single damned thing.
If we could revert to the years before the Gregorian Calendar: me back in the fruit of my body,
as I am made of onyx and poppies and the love of my family. Let me watch Caligula
go to war with the sea in August! Let me go with him! Let Virgo and Leo move their places, marching across the sky without the hindrances of May or June or July. If I could simply be me, go to war with the sea, and let August be the sixth month of the year, maybe I would be
content. Perhaps I would not fight the numbering and passing of days in my forever—sixth month—August, in my long-lasting mens sextilius, as it was meant to be. Without the men,
Numa, Caesar, Augustus, whoever, trying to eat the fruit off of my tree in August.

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Published in the North Carolina Poetry Society 2023 Pinesong Anthology