January

 

I said to January,

just born and tilting like an upset vase

between heartbeat and nothingness,

"Borrow my hands

to hold yourself here. Rock yourself

into this motherless place."

Summer is an orange

in sections, skin as thin as a pulse,

her bright dress never meant for us. 

I said to January

with her hair of stars and darkness,

"You were born to grace the river ice."

January said to me,

"There is one kimono, spun of morning silence--

wrap with me inside it, as pleasure does with melancholy."

We slept and were steeped

in both love and loneliness. When she vanished,

I kept both and went on, into what was, and would be.

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