Yellow Sweater

Wine and aspirin 
Post hoc ergo propter hoc:
A phrase I learned watching The West Wing, 
My prize for tolerating incessant mansplaining.

Each night, a bath water baptism. 
Soft jazz, a cluttered desk swept clean.

This afternoon I step delicately, avoiding the cairns peppered precariously down the undulating edge. I fondle the many colors of smooth granite, noting the short distance between green and pink. 

Almost grey, 

Tradition transcends history; 
genocidal feasts 

have become something lovely. 

But what right do we have to ignore our roots, 
while we give thanks for life? 

Ritual:

turkey

I lost my pomegranate passion, 
when I found my stained lips. 

Standing naked under the rain, 
Is too whole to satisfy.  

I ache to tear myself open
and hide in the cracks. 

The unconvertible have closed themselves to spring,
to dying.  

I watch the cornflowers. 

Wind and gull cries 
pull the flowers from themselves, 
until they are only blue. 

Music trembles as it carries me. I am brittle, my many pieces buzzing. The friction of the universe contained in me. Silence and sound, grating against each other. Time and space, laughing in their cruel dance. Their song is gone. I am only whole.