HOME | DD

Description
there is always some
thing left behind,
and in the months after spring
time is always reserved
for reassembling the pieces
for rediscovering the way my reflection looks,
for trying to stitch gold
around the clouds
as if my hands were a sunset.

in the months after spring
i am searching
for the person i remember being
before losses outmatched gains and even
the ocean looked
emptier than usual and
mountains slouched—
their posture decaying the way a lover stood,
curving like a question
i could never answer.

in these months after
spring, i think
i can start again
but winter is always greedy
and i always crack.

my hands get so dry even if
my face survives
it feels like surviving
it feels like all i can do
exhaling ice onto my fingertips
until they frostbite glow &
then wonder

how am i ever supposed to hold anyone
with a grip like this?

and no matter where i go
winter is always waiting for me.
it is my arthritis before a storm
and god
i tell you
sometimes i ache
all the time.

i feel the ground in my bones—
a grave in my mouth,
grow sick with wanting
too much or not enough.
i am always too much or not enough,
constricting until
i am a snake squeezing herself to death.

in winter, sleepless nights
make me dream of dying and
in spring, the life in the blossoms
makes me wish i could be more than i am.

i am always too much or not enough.

in the months after spring,
i dig a hole and plant myself.
maybe this time i
will grow.