They say it is coming—
this heat wave
like a warning shot from the gods
or maybe from the ground
where we buried every lie we ever told about the weather.

109 degrees Fahrenheit—
that is 43 Celsius for those tuning in from across the borderlines,
from cooler coastlines or continents
where the sun still remembers how to kiss and not devour.
But here in Iowa?
The sun is no gentle lover.
Here, it bites.
It sears.
It brands the day into our backs
like we are livestock on some unforgiving timeline.

They say we broke the planet.
I say the planet is breaking us back.
Retribution, slow and steaming,
bubbling up in asphalt veins
and the corners of houses where AC units wheeze
like overworked lungs.

You do not breathe 109.
You choke on it.
You do not walk in 109.
You trudge,
dragging your dignity behind you
like it is melting, too.

The weather app says
“feels like 117”
and I laugh
because what does feels like even mean anymore
when the air has teeth,
when the trees look tired,
and even the dogs refuse to chase their own joy.

Iowa is sweating through its T-shirt,
its soil cracking
like lips that forgot water,
its cornfields whispering
something between prayer and surrender.

This is not just heat.
This is testimony.
This is the climate giving closing arguments.
This is your forecast with a side of foreshadow.
This is the Midwest waking up
to a sunrise that does not rise—it rages.

How do you prepare for 109 (43)?
You cannot.
You brace.
You bunker.
You whisper to your ancestors,
ask how they handled it
when the rivers ran low
and the sun stole the color from the sky.

And still—
people will say it is normal.
Say, “Oh, we always had a few hot ones.”
Say, “It is just summer.”
As if 43°C is the kind of hot
you can explain away with lemonade.

But lemonade will not keep your grandma from heatstroke.
It will not cool the blacktop
where children once drew hopscotch
and now burn their soles just by existing.

This heat is not a guest—it is an occupation.
And we invited it.
Every pipeline.
Every plastic straw.
Every lie we told ourselves
while standing in checkout lines under fluorescent lights,
believing the future was far off.

The future is not far off.
It is here.
It is on your skin.
It is peeling paint from your porch.
It is in the power grid stretched so thin
you can hear it beg.

So what do you do
when the air forgets how to cool?
You remember.

You remember who you are.
You check on your neighbor.
You find a shady tree
and thank it like it gave you breath.
Because maybe it did.
You do not let the silence fool you—
heat can be loud
in all the ways it makes us feel small,
fragile,
outmatched.

But this is not a story about surrender.
It is a story about bearing witness.
About calling it what it is.
About saying out loud:

“This is not normal.”
“This is not okay.”
“This is not survivable for all of us.”

And still we stand—
sweating, yes,
but speaking.
Still we stand—
breathing heavy,
but breathing.
Still we stand—
under this brutal sky,
and we speak the truth:

109 (43) is not just a number.
It is a reckoning.
And we are living through it,
one blistered hour at a time.