it’s mid-March and the clouds
have just begun to divorce
so arduously you’d swear the
purpling sky was bruised by the
split. the sun is a needle through
chiffon air—catching on your corpse,
stiff and slack-beaked, sunken in
a halo of melting snow that sloughs
away like skin from a wound.
moments after water seeps into
fabric, the threads bloom with
a ripe breath of colour. if i close
my eyes, i can pretend the
rivulets of blood curlicuing your
red chest are nothing but stains
from the damp remnants of winter.
and when the hush thickens,
i’ll move as though you might too—
in the palms of my hands,
dear herald of spring, is
the warmth of a season you
missed by a morning.