April 17, 2009: Nothing but winter in my cup, Alice George

Nothing but winter in my cup
Alice George

     but then
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