I told you I would find you a spring poem
filling your mind with the smell of daffodils
the worded anticipation of warmer, saturated
But poems about spring feel tacky tonight
like a valentines day chocolate that melted
in my back pocket where your hand fits
They reverb a sublimity, so far sickly
softness that my tired eyes can’t grapple to focus. I’m trying but spring means that
My year has been swallowed before me
and the only use I see for budding sakura
are for peppering that grief with scorn.
There’s no optimism in the mother’s womb.
Yesterday’s shellacked optimism is matte.
Fertility doesn’t subdue reality. Sigh.
Perhaps I will sleep it off. But then,
perhaps cynicism in the face of ******
beauty, is my becoming a poet.
Let me lick your cinnamon freckles
and map them with my tongue.
If I could strip you of your body
I'd leave this feature, just this one.
Perhaps that might sound creepy,
I fetishize your spots.
But dear oh dear forgive me
I could gobble them right up.
If poetry must be pretty
I will take this moment to compare
them to stars, grains of sand- whatever
sends the shover back up your spine.
But these thoughts are not pretty
they are hungry
and your skin makes my mind
S A L I V A T E.
— The End —