Snow in October
(oh, how cruel it is)
Often, my shadow frightens me as
it reflects pain, a dismal mirror.
I bite my lip and draw thick blood.
Why must my veins ache?
Something dark is soothed
by the iron taste, its rusty tinge, its deep crimson.
Pain walks around wondering why it has a secret.
Its sound is that of fresh snow
falling to frozen soil,
solidifying winter’s inevitable hardness.
But to snow in October, oh, how cruel it is,
a month so deep and desperate I could cry.
It’s hard to hope for the slushy sidewalks
and the salty cracked body of the city.
It echoes against bones
and radiates through the staircases of spines,
tripping down each step.
Bones freeze, forming into
gnarly icicles, splitting into shards of glass.
Looking into their mirrored surfaces,
I wonder just how long until they melt?
How long until the meat
of my muscles thaws?
People tend to say
the heart wants what it wants
and to that I reply
healing, mindfulness, calm.
Plastic organs, a knotted piece of firewood,
a pretty wildflower to hold.
Alas, it is snowing in October!
But the heart still wants…
it wants to be bathed by soft hands,
cradled in a bowl of soapy warm water.
The suds hide the temperamental nature
and blatant yearning of the pulsing organ;
the water turns red with remorse.
It seems that heartstrings crush like bones.
A whirlwind of seagulls flock the beaches,
soaking up pain’s knowledge,
picking at the carcass.
You cut your hair with kids scissors,
trying to feel something
and the chemical stench of craft store dye
stains the bathtub wall.
Why must pain hold such
dreadful secrets? Why must it snow in October?