Fall is what happens to you.
Spring is what happens after you.
When snow lets go of dead things
and summer hasn’t collected them yet
in all its chitiny claws and mouths,
you see the heron’s wing-workings: tendon, bone and feather.
You know it.
You know it, but the high
of all the white sucked up
explodes in blue immortality.
And every year, you outlive yourself,
until you don’t.
The world is parched:
swamp blazes azure,
chalk-green lake withdraws,
exposing shores of shells – ghost riches,
fields of undead grass
rise up in hissing gold.
Don’t hasten sleep.
This is the gap, the sandbar
gasp in the flow.
The trees are tinder;
grit your heart – make fire!
Before the rain falls.
When the sun hits the poplar, it chimes
and there is a sky meringue brewing.
So what if some of the blue is tense
and a little snow falls?
So what if the sting of being is a little blunted?
I spent the day talking to my mother about adultery,
her green and violet eyelids like wilted butterflies.
I know where I’m headed;
doesn’t stop me wanting
to tear through your chest into the day still ringing hard with winter.
KSENIJA SPASIC is a poet, English professor and visual artist who is trying to keep her heart susceptible and her words agile.
Copyright © 2019 by Ksenija Spasic. All rights reserved.