December came like a thief
in a black robe,
at a fated hour while the Gods slept,
and devoured my Dad.
January cut me into shards,
broke my limbs,
crushed my ribs,
and dipped my brain in a jar of vinegar.
February’s vicious hands
stretched me infinitely,
and then, without warning,
snapped me back.
March arrived with the scent of
tender mango blossoms.
Pregnant lily bulbs inched out
orange babies of despair.
The Friday rains descended with
the shrill of a farmer’s cry,
the flowers were soon gone.
April’s sun summoned me,
to drink its pink venom of reality.
I entered my siesta,
Halfway down my throat,
it charred my dream and startled me awake.
May brought me wilted flowers
from the Dutch Cemetery
and shrouded me in
wreaths of unheard prayers.
Dear June, be kind.
I am broken, beyond repair.
Be kind.
Rain on my parched soul,
flood me with love,
let me float around for a while
in a paper boat of memories.
Be my home.
Dear June.
***
Photo by Hannah Domsic on Unsplash
