January is folded neatly like my mother taught me,
life’s dirty laundry, she left the rest to the housekeeper,
we failed to clean it, the dirt got in deeper.
February and like you I why: when even scrambled I’m get me you
March and I have finally stopped burning bridges that are not yet
done being built and will let all that is meant to be (or not)
sink softly into the silt
April is overburdened on both sides, the extremist can’t
keep up either and simply snaps
May is where dreams come from- the deepest part of your
chest cavity, the sorest part of my throat, behind aching knees,
in my lungs, under our tongues
June & there are better ways to leave than through the skylight
or the heart/window
July and i am becoming, i am becoming, i am becoming,
empty sonnet, rolling static, sun splinters and
the spiders scatter
August, because- don’t leave me behind, don’t forget about me
don’t replace me, don’t hold this against me,
don’t ever say these things aloud because my mother taught me.
September sees sometimes the break in your heart is more like
the hole in the flute, sometimes it’s the place where the music
comes through and it came through for me when I most needed it to
October and we took the underground train home because we thought
to stop at the museum of natural history would turn habits and
thoughts that are old into to fossils, turn fools into gold,
November is dicing together my fragmentary thoughts on the
fridge door, when I play guitar, it creaks like it's dying
and I start crying.
December so I check my quiet corners for signs of you.
I check my poems for signs of wounds.
