17

24 Nov 2023

She feels like there is a love she had

That never thawed enough to root.

Like this jog along the national park

Wondering if you’ve an oven left on.

Like this seed half-shrivelled by the frost

Too young to know that it should sprout.

What could she do?

She wanted it to split her husk

And bloom about like a sunflower

And gulp the sun like drunkard’s gold

And scatter her children to the wind

So they could bourgeon with hard thyme.

But she couldn’t quite yet drink enough vodka

Or milk to pH her heart to pump again.

If she wasn’t such a sensitive pet

And didn’t mind the wandering eye

That bled her in the cold night,

That she wanted gouged and disfigured.

Some loves are glacial.

And the lameness in her bones

Couldn’t stand this small frost.

Still she’d stand on her ice,

Digging into the early mornings,

Checking sleeping bulbs for rot.

She’ll kneel here in her bedroom

Warming her hands on others’ burning blooms

With here eyes on the glacier’s ground.

Its breeze swings stings along the wind

The cold lets her hot cheeks cool

And freezes her tears with mercy.