Season: Gleam
How can we both have our way?
April sun and the spring seeds planted
in dry earth that shines at sunrise
bits of green showing winter is over.
My high C is darker
full of mountain wind,
and the desires it brings:
to turn away, to fold inward,
to hibernate in a warm cave.
But don’t you hear the low
come to me humming from my body,
fear trembling the words,
my hair so on edge
it needs to be stroked down.
What my body wants is the slowest
touching, an answering hum
I know how it is, I will spare you.
Don’t shake me awake, or startle
me into spring light, getting to the point
which is not the point at all.
Aren’t my scars still visible?
I hate a voice with an undertow
of insistence, its slow calm reason.
Don’t make me make sense.
Look, in the thawed dirt,
aren’t there bits of green showing
