I’m a Sucker for Poems that End with Spring
Because what I think they’re saying is happy almost.
Happy new dirt and taller sun. Happy unwinter.
Happy divorce, or degree, or old self you’ve shedded
like a rattlesnake to become. Happy tulips and hunger
and red lipstick at spin class on Wednesday. Happy licking
Crème brûlée off your middle finger. Happy repeating the word No
(no, no, no) like the gorgeous punctuation you’ve fought for.
Happy more of this, please and you already know my answer.
Happy bright fucking purple. Every fear has a finish line.
Happy rain and petals, and even if it took twenty years
and a few extra dress sizes, happy answering your own prayer.
Peace can be a habit, too. Happy today is it. Is here. So kiss them
already. Tell your dead mom your book just sold.
That your daughter’s laugh sounds like a rock tumbler
smoothing earth into orange calcite. The geese fly
backward through decay and daisies. We trudge through
teeth and spit and promises of one day. Until it arrives.
For All Those Who Have Been Waiting
to open the champagne, dusty with
patience. To drink the desert. Bite
the neck of someone new. To quit
the job, the man, the lie you swig
from every winter. The standstill
traffic of excuse. Tomorrow is
always so hungry. Sometimes, even
your own life forgets to call you
back. The sun sets somewhere
warmer and teal. Maybe the trick is
believing enough to keep
opening—doors, prayers, avocados,
arms, and elevators. To keep
pushing the loud button of want,
until the future becomes a
dance floor beneath your feet.
I Want To Stop Wasting Time Thinking About Wasted Time
Always in such a rush to hurry up and live.
Scribble joy off my To-Do list. How American
to want it all and still say more. Don’t I have
every ounce I thirsted for: quiet water, endless
ink, a little love on both sides of the bed.
I want to be less scared and more
salt water. To taste the wind
and never beg it to stay.
