December’s identity crisis
Students of the fantastical.
Wind that might have been
A bitter bite —
A lover nibbles
At my ear,
But I keep my hat on
Out of habit.

And there is no
In a weather
Such as this,
I worship sun
And sweet out of season.

There’s a rippling
And a snapping —
Celebratory flags,
Limned with the honey
Of late summer.

A reckless woman
Courts unknowns,
Watches thin hands,
Waits for lucky landings.
And your silence,
Your rightness,
Show what you must
Be capable of.

In remembering rains —
Rains outrun
Or burned up in summer sun —
I sense this
Is going to catch up with me.
The storm’s upon me now.

Mythologies I have nursed
Coalesce to corporeal,
And it cannot be escaped.
You are this wave —
A constant retreating,
Rolling and rising.
And you are going
To tumble me down
All over again.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

One response to “12.3.12”

  1. Audrey Howitt says :

    When I read the first stanza, I thought, well this is something special–I thought that all the way through the piece

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