there you are.
Saturdays, and the 1 pm alarm clock
on snooze,
the bare-faced evenings
in throw blankets;
languid but there is still
a rabid tongue
between fits of sudden inspiration,
from sheets to
cushions to sheets
to type it down,
to shower
once a week
if you’ll allow yourself to feel warmth
graze your chin, scalp,
untouched thighs.
open your chapped lips to the sky,
feel the water rush your neck
trickle down your navel
soak your unseen toenails,
and do not question anything
for those whole three seconds.
it is the closest thing to orgasm
you can manage.

it has been a tough change in seasons.
tights and boots and an expansive
blankness that still drives your body around
after work to get soy milk,
make polenta for lunch,
take out the compost,
take out the trash,
finish something you once started
when it was
skirts and cherry blossoms,
some organic laughter on a fast bike downhill
and a patient optimism that seems
unvisited but should be worked out
by now.
sometimes it is actually raining.

it is harder than that too.
there is a cold and cramps
and no tissues or pads and
an anniversary coming that
stings and does not ever let go.
and you do hear from them
but with expectations.
you have wrapped yourself tightly
in some binding perseverations
so you constrict yourself,
restrict your errands, and bleed openly
on the carpet.
and sure, there is hunger,
but it’s quick and
you succeed in a relatively
docile surrender.
so what is there outside?
sometimes it is a blizzard.

then it’s flowers and unexpected showers
but it is day longer, sun higher,
you are not mired in the date of departure
anymore, and you forgive the monsoons.
your sensualizing emotions present themselves:
the gloss and black tips,
hips in sheer nylon,
a gentle sway.
sometimes it is unseasonably warm
and you have to hold your cardigan in your hand
but you have managed a smile
and some sense of buoyancy
and dragged someone  along
with the sleeves of
your unworn sweater.
you get lucky and they want to take the long way
as you have a tendency to
just suddenly rush things.

the dawn is rising,
it will be scorching soon.
you will be thirsty all of the time,
but you will be nourished with
gray clouds as they pour.
you will be darker and brighter
at once: tan, giggling,
brooding in the sand.
tonight, you are alone at midnight
in a phone screen and nothing else,
falling into what remains
of your bitter projection.
it will be hotter tonight but
it will be the same
as it ever was.

you didn’t ask for change.
you didn’t ask for the person.
you asked for the game,
and you played the hunter,
conqueror, executioner.
you are the broken doe.
you are the trap they laid
for her arrival.
you played yourself,
and you played defeat with
both sparkle and
you reached the pinnacle.

you are both raging moon
and blazing sun,
and wounded outcome.

“perennial ”


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