Yesterday snow blossomed into the open door of my hurt hand. A little spring here, it would kill all of the animals. I think I can smell what a thousand crocuses would look like. At first, you do all the right things, then everything is poisonous.
That broad glowing sky shook
and I couldn’t resist
today’s medical term:
a kind of quivering
I tried to connect
to you when we were
What is it called when
you have no hooks
to grapple with?
Another someone would
go out in that same night
and this is why I
You and I are not
the waiting kind.
This much I
allow myself to label.
“The way to write is to throw your body at the mark when your arrows are spent.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
I ask you not to read this until at least
your eyes have read pain,
which you think you will recognize but
can’t know until, alone without
the shattering reflection of it,
you can still feel it in the room.
I ask you not to gently pat your desires
down when they are half-grown seedlings
sprouting from your old blood, but to lace
a fence around their delicate progress. When
you cage a thing to remember it later,
it is never the same. The key is
remembering that they are perennial.
And now, for all the talk about
blood: it runs on streets, it boils and it
freezes. Why is it important
to keep a hard, new chip of this
in a brain? I don’t tell you so that
so you can know your job
will be different.
Because the job will always
be harder, whether snow
needs to be shoveled to make room
for new life or death, whether
you speak to the ones that inspect
your native face, or a ghost,
whether you are leaving a dirt
plain or a thick forest.
I can only hold the mirror to
show you parts of those
the ones you left behind. They are
packed into the portable vessels
of you, they will spill and run free
this is certain.
I just can’t tell you
if you’ll notice-important
to stitch up your own wounds,
before cleaning up someone else’s
“If I waited til I felt like writing, I’d never write at all.”