My ability to focus this week has, let’s say, not been at an all-time high. My levels of creative inspiration have also, unfortunately, started to suffer the effects of that. Oh well. As my old poetry team would say, no disclaimers!
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CWs for today: None
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day 17
he comes to your blown-apart
kingdom bearing crocuses, arms
overflowing, and the loneliness of
winter falls away—your sky purples, streaks
with sunlight to paint him in. it’s easy to forget
everything you shouldn’t do, warm
like this. let him reach out and spin
spring mist around his finger, press it to the hollowed
ground of your ribs—let him tell you that
something could bloom there, easily. that something
is. in the cradle of his dropped flowers, you
breathe deeply—size up the vacancy. size him
up, too. he recollects a blossom to tuck
behind your ear, and you feel it taking
root. he digs into you, meaning
only to turn over fresh earth.