Spring—& Everyone Seems so Fucking Happy
No seeds to sow.
The taste
of silt. Scorched grass.
My rage?
There is no time,
no cradle for it.
This morning, shaky again,
I drop the spoon, flip
over the bowl of oatmeal
as I try to stir it cool.
Once my living children
are tucked
into school, I return
to the frost forest,
the banks above the ice river
where despair can slip
along, carving
the rocks, sending
moss as messenger
for all that was taken.
I walked where we harvested
wild blueberries, he writes.
The ghost and I
do not write back.
I want my body
before it knew his
body. I gather and weave
what protections
I can — yarrow, knot-
weed, wild rose.
With no harbor
for anger, exhaustion
pulls me down
in its net.
The sheets
are a shroud
and I will sew them closed
with my breath.
I trust no one, especially
not myself anymore. I ask
the land — Bones
of the Mother
I have loved,
open to me.
