fifty-three winters and
one used heart

poetry, grief, winter

the lamb walks into april’s forest
wearing nothing but a long lion’s tail

tip dragging through mud
and months held captive
in dirt-speckled
piles on the ground

no one tells you that grief
is a thief

stealing words meant for sunshine

wrapping purple-bruised prose
and wide ocean phrase
in smooth sheets
of scratched-up cellophane
tied tight with
smoke-colored ribbon

leaving letters
to suffocate in drawers
lined with potent
flower pretty

no one tells you
about the choke-hold
of regret

well, they tell you
but no one listens

this year
the lion ate a hole
right through me

a new window, i suppose
with a view i’m still learning

a flick of tail
black wool
and that neverending

the wind howls through me
with the whistle
of fable-fraught table-drawn

and all i can hear
is the caw
of white laughter




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one used heart”

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