A sestina to mark the passing of 20 years
She does not enjoy the cold,
Yet at the end of April, when the leaves
unfurl, and blankets lovingly knitted
are carefully folded away, the ice
held deep down within her brain and belly
Memory defrosts in Spring.
Remnants of a past life, stored in the cold,
warm, calve into her salt water belly.
Photographs of old haircuts and new leaves
are calculated chasms, shards of ice
shredding a heart that must be re-knitted.
Revisiting the knitted
hats and wounds is a ritual of Spring
as painful and necessary as ice
baths resetting her vagus nerve with cold:
a New Year’s turning over of new leaves;
a poor meal that fills an empty belly.
Curled deep within her belly,
a familiar ache chips away knitted
resolve forged over twenty years. The
leaves pressed in wax and preserved for twenty Springs
nestle atop twin lions, palm sized cold
metal urns. ____ Her heart is ice.
Her July heart is not ice.
Mundane emotions wade through her belly.
January does not make her soul cold.
The irony will find her. It’s knitted
into the what ifs that emerge in spring,
perennial pain comes up like new leaves.
Right the tilt. Stop the spin. Leaves
grow vines with thorns that pierce her heart of ice.
Spend a thousand days or more lost in Spring.
Allow the agony in her belly
to froth from her mouth. Let knots knitted
over decades unravel in the cold.
She returns the leaves. Breath fills her belly.
Jagged thorns of ice are wrapped in knitted
Blankets to wait for spring and the return of cold.
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