The girl named after the fruit
Has got her tongue
All tied in loops
As she tries to describe
Why the flowers bloom
In spring, not winter.
She imbibes
Glass splinters
To survive the snow
Driven
Depression
That comes with
The season.

She’s trying hard to explain
The way it makes her feel
When a thousand rain
Crashes drop onto her skin
In a rhythm of
Random points
Of pressure, and
The way the wind
Blows the rain
Into the left ear
Through her brain
And out of the right,
Cleansing her mind
Of any qualms,

Any frights,

Any problems
That might
Pose a problem.

It makes her free,
It sets her right,
But she can’t help
Wondering why
She runs
To her car,

Or to the door,

Or into the store,

To avoid getting wet,
As if she even can.

The girl named after the fruit
Sits alone next
To her couch,
With the stench of ***
Swirling through
Her apartment.
It mixes with the trails
Of smoke from
Her cigarette,
And she tries to figure
Out what
She is doing
There,
Why she has to
Bear the fruit
Of her labors,
The 12 years spent
At a lab table,

Behind a desk,

Or with her face in a book,

If all she gets now
Is a different *****
To **** every night
And a constantly
Growing hole
In her sanity,

Her bank account,

Her ability to recount
Exactly what happened
The day before.

She puts out her
Cig on the living room floor
And walks into the snow storm,
Naked except for her
Hello kitty socks.
She becomes one with the white,
She merges with the way
The ice crystals
Swirl in the air,
She fuses with their
Trails and the intricacies
Of falling stars
Until she blows away,
To melt basking
In the sunshine
Of a late
February day.