march begins

i am not a poet

march begins and i am bleeding.

march is the kind of month that you can hold in your hand like a fruit

wrap you fingers around it feel it

full and hard and (almost but not quite) 

ready for penetration.

but i don’t mind the wait. 

march brings with it a reminder

that waiting can be just as savory as what we wait for.

i have an urge (but a soft urge because remember please don’t forget i am patient)

to fill my mouth with daffodils and

slip myself under cascades of red wine and

oh i am so golden

and 

(and i know we could be golden together)

(but i digress)

so instead of wanting you i let the sound of a nearby creek brush against the back of my ears

like the whispers of angels.

i’m twirling blades

of grass between my fingertips.

march is a warming 

march is a warning

march disrobes me

i’m happily raw and ready

for indulgence

(we can’t yet remember, so early on, how dangerous it is to be this vulnerable).

in my dream we are sucking on wild blackberries

like we have no shame. 

we wander through burnt buildings searching for remnants of our future.

we are before the deluge.

we spread ourselves and smile.

---

tonight, a woman: 

before we speak to one another i look into her eyes, deep. i plunge into them, just for a moment. i knew she would let me; i could tell almost immediately that we share the same types of secrets. i am doing this to let her know that i see her. but i am also being very selfish. it’s been too long since i’ve seen myself in someone else and so i pounce at the opportunity. i don’t know if i will ever be good enough to just give without also taking.