february poetry

[amyjeanmachine]

(xiv) why I hate february

my secret. stiff straight backs around a square table. four. an empty chair. twenty-odd years. apologies. denial, confusion, nightmares. for weeks for weeks for weeks. and everything falls into place. her blank eyes, my blank mind, my heart an empty room. I bet his face is just like mine. writing letter after letter to him. no address. no name. just love, love, love with nowhere to send it. letting in, breathing out. a dark dirt road, slush and snow, swingset. a bed heavy with liquor, my sleepy confession. a car in a driveway, I want to hold your hand. I want to tell you everything. I want you to make february warmer.

(xv) the butterflies have migrated

for the moment we are
nothing more than actors
hand in hand and we
throw our voices out
as far as they can go
farther than our
eyes can see
I can't breathe
I can't breathe
I can't breathe.

(xvi) toronto song

I am listening to charming songs
and your heart is steadily beating along
through your sweater
and the city scent,
warm right to the
white of my bones.
I might be falling but I am not sure.
tell me all of your secrets,
tell me with song,
with pretty poetry,
with sticky flowers,
hot sand, dry leaves.
I will cover you in coffee kisses,
fill you up with air and raging
butterflies.
I'm going to stay if you want me to.
if I'm shining, it's all for you.