It's the dead of winter.
The skin on my thighs itches.
My hair is coming in pale at the roots.
The desperation that flourishes
while the sun sleeps
has sunk low into my chest,
a thick, green muck.
Sometimes, I can't remember
what summer felt like, how it tasted.
I put the petals of daisies in my mouth
for safekeeping, but I couldn't
keep from swallowing them
before memory had time to set in.
I imagine myself putting on a sundress
in defiance of the weather,
waltzing out of doors in bare skin,
ignoring naked trees in favor of the sky.
Instead, I burrow further under the blankets.
My fantasies have always been
much braver than myself.

02/18/2009

Posted on 03/12/2009
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