Spring 2016 (June 1, 2016)


May 2, 2016
By Kate Abram

Waking up to metal lips
cold on fogged glass and checkered screen wire,
and beyond that the world, blurred and frozen,
and the only thing is green and it is a pine tree.

When the squirrel flies headlong down that trunk
the sudden fog of heady exhale
out soft sigh soft gray body landing soft in snow
and it digs.

Someone has run in dizzy circles here,
a question mark tail stapled to their boot,
and where is what the squirrel is searching for,
trailing questions in the snow smelling only metal?

If the squirrel cannot remember,
how are we supposed to find our spring,
now when all of life and world has gone so still?

How can this aluminum brain, tinny cold,
find that scrap of paper
where we wrote down grass shoot dancing and the clapping of nasturtiums.

When the second squirrel comes down,
they are circling and jumping over,
and if they haven’t yet they are fighting soon
and there will be soft gray metal shavings in the metal snow.

But no, they are running, flying headlong towards the barn shed
tumbling like relief of something looked for and found.
These two spinning feet, tails intertwined like teenagers,
they slip around the corner and fall
into the still-laughing hay.