During the final spring, the frostline
crept back down until it dissipated and
salamanders erupted from the mulch.
I often wanted to go back in time to the moment
before anyone had yet ever loved me.
Did everyone have such a moment? No.
I had such a moment, and so was unlucky,
but face it, too, a kind of luck. For when
I was first loved, I was awake and could
think clearly and remember my experiences.
One day when I was sixteen someone loved me
for the first time, and though it doesn’t matter
who it was, and though that love was fleeting
and also fucked up and damaging, that
I felt it at all was quite remarkable.
How few of us knew what it was like
to go from the bare floor to the bed? So.
I went back to the floor, as life blinked
out but slowly, one comfort at a time,
and I was neither surprised nor hopeful.
Quick to remind us that a moon is any
blunt object orbiting a life-giving
celestial body, indifferent to
that body’s diadem, we soon understood
all was moon, and assembled your moons
but it was your tinders we most regretted
going up in that blaze. It was four-hundred
years of life rooted followed by four-hundred
years of life suspended. Hewn, crafted
on one hand murdered, on the other preserved.
Velocity ran in one way, reluctance out the other.
are a meal and a habitat. You cure
your own fish and assemble your paws
Love splits mud into you and I.
No, you say, mud cannot be split.
did things on that purpose, and that is how
we were able to fail. Did you mean fall?
Yes, that is how we were able to fall.
That’s what the dotted lines were for.
All that time, you could’ve cut along them.
bird? I asked. The bride, they said,
the new one.
[more poem went here]
Your thoughts ice in mud
that melts around them. Camphor. Cayenne.
[There used to be more poem here]
…Mud that smells
like the death of a queen and mud that
freezes and melts, a pulse.