Nothing but winter in my cup
she comes climbing out the manhole
wreathed in steam mouth a red
message and she’s sobbing
like a siren for mama.
When I pin spring close
her breasts press like yeast rolls
and somehow daffodils still wet from their low prison
insist between us and
she must be bleeding
from somewhere because I taste
iron and honey.
When she starts to talk
my ears learn such a wild high humming
I forget almost everything
got wrecked when she was away.
A year ago today: Poppies in October, Sylvia Plath
Two years ago: I Imagine The Gods, Jack Gilbert
Three years ago: An Offer Received In This Morning’s Mail, Amy Gerstler
Four years ago: The Last Poem In The World, Hayden Carruth