July is lost to growing and the counsel of the mother shelves, preparing her, making her ready to produce.
And soon she’s big enough: “Don’t ruin those clothes,” says the withered thing that was her mother, “They’ll have to do the next one.”
(Men are gathering on the street, waiting for the woman to come, to wheel before her this month’s child.
And when there’s no sign of her, furtive and silent looks are exchanged.
It’s a birthing month. Nothing new will come for weeks. Silently and furtively, they leave.)
And July ends in mint and marigolds.
The women watch as it has its first.
A beautiful child.
It sells for thousands.