Slowly, January, for I Might Break

You make me write the worst poems.

It’s as effortless as opening window panes, however;
The cold wind you bring through
Still smelling of moonflakes December held close.

I cannot decide what’s worse:
The over-ripening of fruit or the buzzing
Of the fly, hov’ring ‘bove it’s sunburst skin, at wit’s end,
Not knowing what to do —
In certain panic expressing
Through its little wings, its only truth:
That it loves fruit.

You make me write the worst poems.

However, the table is set, and one must eat.
If not me, then my trials, and my missives, sweet
Incarceration of dunes in the thought-wheel spoke,
Meanwhile earnest, the singing of crows outside, screaming,
Slowly, slowly, January,
Do not break me—
Do not break me so soon.

And after you, I was lonely.
Before you, I was, too,
But you made me remember, or perhaps… know
What… love truly felt like, even so.
What did I remember, though?
What did I really know?

(I still hear you whisper) Only the wind, now —
(I still hear you whisper so close) Only the wind.

You make me write the worst poems.

You make me write the best ones, too.

— A. P.

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