a melancholy I always watched
the willows perfect
some spring days when I walked
to the edge of the city and back.
they wore hard contemplation
more naturally
and with an undoubted beauty,
but it’s dark at four and
forget about the moonlight,
or a headlight,
or my sun lamp.
my face is painted brightly
but my head is drawn
in hoods,
I see their winter rival.

my pores were lined with bentonite and steam
and  prayer;
a nihilist effort’s worth
so I kept my skin exfoliated but my
heart blood-thirsty in knots,
Nana’s rosary draped across my wrists,
and most of my fingers crossed
to become a space that contains little breaths
of God
personified,
while I scrubbed the dirt from every inch
of my scalp,
the bridge of my nose,
under my elbows,
my fingernails,
my kneecaps.
any crack that light can fit
I tried to rinse it first.

sometimes I took the long way to the store.
it was 29 degrees out and someone drew a giant sun
blanketing a tulip garden
on the side of a wall in an effort to,
I only assume,
preserve summer & cure their own
raging seasonal affective disorder.
I focused on the colors.
tried to pay attention to the subtle shift in greens
as the stems got closer to photosynthesis,
the yellow stamen, orange petals,
tint of turquoise in the grove of trees
hovering in the distance,
the way everything tilted towards the right
on instinct
with no speaking masters
and no shadows beneath them.

I leaned left towards your block,
focused on feeling the weather change in my tights
and mock wool mini skirt
as I walked
in hopes it would cure my malingering,
will halt my bloodlust,
my persistent inner child
bleating,
suddenly spades out in your dead garden and running
forward,

my thirteenth draft to you.

“Saturn returns”

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s