With spring comes
pollen blossoming in my lungs
flowers popping up from the ground
little girls blooming into young ladies
and I am told to love it.

In the spring I shed my scarves,
my coats, my sweaters, my jeans,
my t-shirts, boots, thick socks,
and I lie naked on my bed
curl to the side
and cough up yellow dust for days.

In the spring I shed my jeans, my boots
and shove on skirts, spaghetti straps, sandals,
long flowing dresses that twist around my toes,
which I paint cherry red and periwinkle
and bury in the grass and bugs and heat.

Butterflies come out in the spring
and stretch their wings and
breathe in sunlight and
sip nectar from flowers.

I come out in the spring
and stretch my creaky legs and
breathe in burning sunlight and
let my hair grow itchy and long,
and I try to say

I am the sun


With summer comes words like
thick, ripe, damp,
damp foreheads
thick ropes of sweat
ripe hot waves of skin cancer
and you wonder why I hate it.

In the summer I shed my skirts,
my sandals, my long tangled dresses,
I pile my hair on top of my head and
I pretend it does not burn red hot.

In the summer I shed my clothes, my skin
and bandage the raw tissue with
t-shirts and sneakers and ratty binders,
with sweaters that are too thick for the heat, and
I pretend it does not burn red hot.

Grass grows in the summer,
and turns green and lush,
and breathes in the air,
and sits and waits until it dies.

I shrink in the summer,
and turn bright red and peeling,
and choke on the air,
and sit and wait until
I can say

**** the sun,

I am a son.