Forgive My imperfection in April
This season of my mind—
always crumble and loam
waiting to be remade.
No scent of tendril, green chute.
I twine no orchids in my hair, only twigs
bare of bud for smoke and crackle.
Always, I am waiting for the fire.
Listen—it says, you are as weightless as ash.
Listen—it says, from your first breath
you are burning.
Tuesday’s Thaw, And Nectar
My loving is reckless—this small-clawed mammal seeking flight.
There is such quiver of forsythia, such tremble
in the orchard. Everything
on the cusp of bloom and ripe—
fruit of his cheek, his speckled iris,
new honeysuckle. Dumbstruck,
I turn sonic beacon, emit clumsy
rings against stone, veins of leaves, skin.
All untetherable, I ache to gather in.
I have made friends with the cormorant-keeper
who, all day, wrings feathered necks.
I have made my hair into pillow for rancid
sleepers, and am still not quick to rise.
Faced with mortality, my pruning
ruthless, I am a woman
silent through the orchard
keeping sleeping buds from turning fruit.