in February i am again
at a wooden table. it is
dark inside because it is
outside dim. outside it is
light gray, inside it it is
dark white. unsure
of what to do, i think
maybe i might want sex.
unsure of what i want, February
rains and then hails.
it sounds itself into a truck
on the street, with its rumbling
against the roof. it tells me
no, your appetite isn’t for
sex, it is for barbecue chicken.
in the slow cooker
with potatoes. outside
the February dark is lighter
than the January light. the light
gray clouds give abundantly,
in lightness and in hail.
a walk to the car, to go out
to get sex or maybe potatoes
and chicken, a walk
to the car brings me blinding
light of dim day. ice balls
and rain drops and pure, blank, empty
wind. i do not know how
to dress myself for; this
weather, this appetite for
flesh, this human, that fowl.
February warms itself
upon my pale legs, legs
tucked under the roof of a small
wooden table. a small wooden
table at which i sit, underneath
blinding light gray appetites.
it is late morning so my mouth
is bitter from coffee and bitter
from the aftertaste of dissipated
dreams. seeking sweetness
i talk to a friend who once kept
bees. she tells me of a man
she was once friends with. he,
now ghostly, haunts
a house they once shared.
she tells me of mail delivered
to the porch of her un-inhabitance,
and how this same mail arrived
unexpectedly at her new place
of residence. she tells me
how she unassumingly climbed
the mild stairs of her wooden
porch, and looking for her house
key, noticed the package.
without sadness she
became aware; dead
bees curled like candy
on her porch, left sweetly by
retreating footsteps of
her ghost.
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