March, you were just here.
Now you’re gone, vanished,
a permanent hiatus. A month
of rain you were. A month
of me strapped to an ottoman
in a hotel room, blindfolded,
you snapping pictures of me naked,
then posting them on Craigslist,
asking who wants her now. The ticking
of the clock, the chilled steam
from your lung machine, the knock
on the door, the heavy footsteps,
the anonymous canisters
of breath exploding
on my shoulder, a sweaty
palm on my calf, a zipper
opening so slowly, each metal
notch catching on the ridges
of my spine. March,
think you can just order
room service and leave me
bed-tied, a note taped
to my clavicle? Every year
it’s the same with you marching
muddy footprints through people’s lives,
little door with rusty hinges
to the forehead opened wide.