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
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
suddenly spades out in your dead garden and running

my thirteenth draft to you.

“Saturn returns”


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