strangled whistles of my old life
Cold sun is strong today, in the spring tug-of-war
where winter clings just to make a fool.
But change plants its roots in little ways to yank back:
the dove in its nesting place,
swelling puddles pushed by the wind,
the red of rich awakened mud on floors.
I can feel my cells stretching,
ripples of greedy digestion along my arms,
the birch of my skin ready to shed,
papery life between my fingers,
death in translucent layers,
easily stretched with scissor edges to form curls
for pleasure. But I note all my opposites now:
light/dark, thick/thin, textured/delicate.
How commercials flicker like villains in the black,
sticking evening that’s speckled with old star beauty,
how the day’s brilliant hues are translated through clouds
that I long to push my arm inside to see
if I would be soaked through.
When every morning I still hear
the strangled whistles of my old lives,
but the whispers of future fables grow so, so faint.