Spring.
I know who I am in fall, in winter when I can taste my death in crystals.
I know who I am in summer when I gather it’s grotesque bounty,
But in spring, I am lost.
Lost to the urges and yearnings that come from behind
Through my shoulders and fingers into moist beginning.
In spring I am lost;
Lost to the waters and mosses and stones and shoots of greening
Sweet tulip bulbs and the bloodied vernix of a
holy welcome.
In spring I am lost;
Lost to the pouring of fleshy water on waxed black wings and red plumping breasts,
The alchemy of liquid silver in purple hungry crocus mouths.
In the wet darkened place beneath root and stem a
thigh,
Spring stretches and breaks in the amniotic flood of
birth dance.
And I am lost.
