insistent and stupid, dead oak leaves spilling
from his windy lips.
"Darling," I hear my voice confabulate. My memory
fell through the ice of his pride six years ago and hasn't been seen since.
So I make shit up:
"I missed you," and such fantastic idiocy. I send
weevils into his head to hunt for what went before,
and find my affair with his brother, Fall, and his
first love turned bitter enemy and destroyer, Spring.
She and I conspire by telepathy, though I forget afterwards.
Can he hear the cicadas inside my bones, feel the
mosquito pond of my stilled airless blood?
My benefactor, the Sun, waits for him to subside and die
So that we can be together.
But this time the infuriating fool has the vitality of the nearly-expired,
and as he enters me, the shock of cold sends cracks
from toes to skull and back again, I am riven
by lost and desperate ice-beaked birds who need me to the point of misery.
Secretly, as he bucks and the wind rises,
I receive the tiny crocus blooms his destroyer sends me
to help me hold on, to fashion together into a time,
Mine, when I will strangle him with rose vines,
sway to my feet as stalks of wheat, heavy as viburnum,
entirely forgetful and ascendant.
"That's right," I coo, opening myself willingly now,
as a grave does, doing what it was born to do,
becoming solid and sun-warmed, anticipating lilies.
For "take the weather with you" at Toads. Day #5 of Napo Nap Time. Greetings from the (still!) frozen wastes of the north.