The whispers of frost have not yet left this forest;
they cling to blades of grass, to rugged bark and clambering vines,
as we cling to each other, desperate and unready to welcome spring.

Above us, the sky is still painted in shades of winter, blue and white,
a mirror of the little lake at our feet;
the clouds vanish into the blue, swallowed by the atmosphere,
like the water reclaims the ice.

As you spread out our blankets, one on top of the other,
the melting ice reminds me of a phoenix;
a flame, consuming itself until it is ash, the beauty of rebirth—
and you and I are both red against the snow.

Our words float into the air like ghosts, thick and crystalline,
and I thank God for the cold, for making your promises tangible,
for letting me touch your syllables as you tell me that I am your solace.
But even as the wind carries them away, we see the heralds of the end:
a green shoot pushing through a carpet of wet brown leaves,
the song of a returning sparrow,
the falling of ice.

If it is to be our swan song, we don’t speak of it.
Under the riotous sunset, your fingers find mine;
your eyes have changed from green to turquoise
and we burn together beneath fleece and cotton.

When we catch our breath, the stars have emerged.

Won’t this be better in June, you say, when we don’t need the blankets?

The last of the ice is gone, returned to water once again.
I throw off our covers.

If this is spring,
I am no longer afraid.

i want to write a poem
that can swallow lightning and wind
and crush all that power into a single bright seed
to plant in the wet ground between us

i want to write a poem
that will flourish like rome
that will rust like bronze
and rise each morning with the russet sun
a poem that will be its own colosseum
each word a lion; your heart a gladiator

i want to write a poem
that will weave music into silence:
a love song, a requiem, a lament,
a death knell, an exaltation

i want to write a poem
that is soft and sharp--
to build you a nest of letters
with fragments of string and bits of daybreak:
a new shelter that can never replace the old

i want to write a poem
that will cover you
a blanket woven of whispers
of all the secrets i've spoken only to the wind

i want to write a poem
but i cannot be fluent
in a language that does not exist
and science has no term
for the cosmic force of my need

and how can i write a poem
when my lips and breath and mind,
my knuckles and gasps and eyes,
my fingers and knees and dreams--
cannot grasp your existence?

I remember the way you were always there for me when I needed you, and I feel now the striking void left in my heart by your absence; in my darkest hours, you were my light, my beacon, the one constant I could count on—

—like the North Star. You sent me a necklace once because it was labeled a North Star, and you misremembered that it was my favorite— I don’t exactly have a favorite star, I’d said with a smile, I was talking about the hockey team: the North Stars.

And I didn’t have a favorite star, not until you died and all I had left of you was that star around my neck, and my tears left an ocean at my feet— and here, now, as my scars read lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate, as I face midnight, I lift wet eyes to the night sky and I hold my breath and I know you’re still here—

—because the stars are bright tonight.

depression and anxiety? my students get a break.
the teacher with disorders, though, gets more than she can take.
frustration's running high, 'cause i've got thousands of demands;
but criticize the system, and i'll get a reprimand.

“meet them where they’re learning,” but standardize the tests.
“every child is different,” but graded like the rest.
“no child left behind,” in a class of thirty-three.
we’re “racing to the top;” if we lose, it’s all on me.

differentiation; meeting high and low.
always being proper... everywhere i go.
scheduled 'til 3:30; stay at work 'til eight.
try to teach with love; i'm often met with hate.

meetings, staffings, lesson plans,
trainings, weekends, lending hands
both to kids and to the staff
time for leisure? that’s a laugh

some kids cheat; some don't care.
read a book? "that's not fair!"
my one plea: follow rules.
“i don’t care. it’s just school.”

we are people just like you
we’ve got stress and feelings too
only so much we can take
‘till our minds begin to break

more excuses, several lies
so much stress i start to cry
“suicidal! fix me now!”
don’t have training; don’t know how

fifty things i have to do
never go to sleep ‘til 2
overwhelmed and breathing fast
i can’t handle—i won’t last—

i cannot relax
the panic attacks
my sanity’s gone
the class must go on

they’ve never heard
these unsaid words
my eyes are clouds
they’re all so loud

patience gone
raging on:
“maybe this
isn’t bliss”

dead brain
joy drained
must run
i’m done

YOU ARE the mushroom clouds beneath my flesh,
shaking my skin with every explosion;
dropping your bombs through revealing emotion
your fission to my fusion / blurred vision and collusion,
you're bright like destruction, it's fatal seduction,
eclipsing existence, to hell with armistice,
come shock my shell come **** my quell
come make me ring that warning bell
come raid my air
come slay my care
come rip
a*part
mY
HOSTILE
PRAYER

you make the quietest sort of noise,
a silent red static
to harmonize with my screams

you are
bright and strong
and solid as a minnesota lake
in the coldest winter

your eyes are steadfast
as keats' star

and if anyone hurts you
i will tear the heart out of them

I.

She is held by long arms of vines,
belted by dark flowers:
a living column surrounded by broken maples,
shadowed willows,
and daisies of ink.

She is still as stone
and whispers like rain,
soft and wet syllables beneath gray skies.
Many creatures hear the noise;
few listen to the words.

Help, she cries.

II.

They come, at last,
to save the forest.

But she still stands,
toes rooted deep in the dirt,
her bark unmarred,

and they cannot see
the rot within.