I haven’t been able to write a poem I’m proud of

Hesitant with old tableaux I’ve crouched 

Curtained and seam-burst

Passing through rooms of riches simmering

humbled like a winter wet stump

I linger.

Maybe it’s because today

I saw huddles of purple crocus so fresh they glowed

early crowned this last day of January

 light reflected off a stream in a new city

 hallowed spring so coquette and green.

Perhaps the way my sister and I spilled our hearts together

our shared pain given like gossip

calcified secrets clicking chiclets in my rattled center

It’s so fucked up,           she said,

like we’ve chosen the death of one of our parents. Like, was it that bad!?

And we cry slow

It was. 

Maybe it’s because in a city where I know

 I can phone a friend, get an answer to the final round

 I can loosen my tongue.

 Let me scatter 

pistachios,     walnuts,     dates,      sharp cheese 

to feed you, reach with your living hand

to pluck sweetly 

from the abundant 

ways we can share.