Seasons

WINTER (DEC 1 – FEB 30)

the forest is restless

I can feel it now, reaching

its cold wooden-limbed arms through my window

it closes it's icy lady fingers in a fist around my appendix

holds tight

refuses to let go

they always made fun of me back in school

tire swings aren't real companions

compared to the real thing, of course

they say that children are mean but I think they're just being honest

is pain the next best policy?

the therapist squints at you when you say this, asks: have you been thinking of self harm?

haven't you? no I don't think so.

a toddler is repeatedly jumping on my heart

I want him to stop but then I wonder if it's really him that's keeping me beating

I have a history of being incompetent, but you know that already don't you

you remember? that time in the car

I cried when I couldn't read the map

how do people read those numbers anyway?

these twisty lines worm their way in my ears and cozy up next to my brain

whispers me jokes to tell at Christmas parties

it's warm in there I guess

I wear warm hats in winter

to keep the humour alive

now you know

SPRING (MAR 1 – MAY 31)

in the spring I am mostly missing

some days the ceiling chips in my dreams

big chunks of space coming into my bedroom

violet daffodils on an uncharted star

I never invited these asteroids in here

they sit on my bed through the night

drinking pink lemonade out of a glass pitcher I set on the bookshelf

they crack open Easter eggs that

forecast the weather

or give you winning lottery numbers

for a night twenty years later

in the meantime,

the pavement is singing chocolate milk into

the pastel gutters outside

the rats are getting cavities

and our fingers are permanently sticky with

the crisp morning dew

a new day

SUMMER (JUN 1 – AUG 31)

the barnacles are working their way up your legs

through to the windows of your eyes

a blue sky

hanging heavy off the sides of the mattress

you dive into it instead of trying to fight it off

like the opposite of the cool dead lake

skin blistering under the aloe vera

I’ve never liked the beach

the sand grits its teeth

as it settles down on the surface of my scalp

reminding me days later that they are Still Here

and that the beach Still Exists

(sounding their horns like the crashing of

waves inside a seashell)

last summer I woke up to find my sailboat had

gotten lost in the sun

her white UV smile opening up

to swallow me into a throat

as scratchy as a worn mexican blanket

her eyes lighting up like bonfires

my sails looking like the

Fourth of July

FALL (SEPT 1 – NOV 30)

inside,

the air in your house is stale, chilly

tens of thousands of open windows line the ever-expanding ceiling

crisp brown paper

a six-pack of beer

later, the lights will be too bright

the fluorescents hurt your eyes

reflecting off waxed floors

shadows settling in hidden crevices

(behind the lockers, in corners, the stairway no one uses)

needless to say,

in four years you will be expected to glow

outside,

the cat is stuck in the tree yet again,

caught in the bare bones of branches

its meows like sirens

fur that glitters like

sixth grade party confetti in the sun

its cold rays

bouncing off the puddles

(the leaves, your hair)

shimmering

shivering