|Oct/Nov 2020 Poetry Special Feature|
Early June after rainstorm. First peeling off
your jacket and shedding it like a flowerhead,
you rest your palms on the windowpane.
You don't like feeling so intact, feeling
your pulse check your collarbone. You heat
up a bowl of oats, sip coffee that's mostly
vanilla cream. Where you haven't been
your author in years. And now the body
is a bluebell on fire. Broken elegies melt
on the tongue like aloe, calls of change
spray across locked doors, you join yourself
inside every evening and its loss. This is how
you remember it: how you are always coming
back. Where now all that's left free is you
and your encyclopedia of therapeutic treatments.
And won't someone please dream of
the unsustainable. Won't someone stay
to watch the world bleed you out
like a lily with its stem cut, dripping.