Frore

This is the most Decembered spring,
I’ve brought my buckets and my
silk flowers to the mourning patch.
The fog rises, sure, but not at dawn,
and I am eagerly washing at nothingness
on stone.

Why do I need a place to lose you?
I could’ve built a church from the sticks you left,
the only evidence that you tried to burn beside me,
and the holes in my legs show that
I tried to stomp you out.

I was dancing something ferocious in your place,
but I got us back to green and believable, sometime
and that is where I bring the bucket—to rinse the ash
and the flowers—to make sure that I
was not responsible for winter this year.

Season’s Aggrievements

I could put a gun in my mouth
or you and all your furnishings,
hang you about my neck
like a big, dumb bird,
beak stuck open
collecting flies

I could swallow poison,
or you and all your decorations,
hang myself with your rib cage tinsel
as you put the best of me into ornaments
for the seasonal display

You choose how to lose me,
in pieces or all at once,
I could breathe in the ocean and
it would meet you in my lungs

Originally published in the 2019 FACETS at the Butler County Community College.