In spring, I sour. I brood. I’m broody
like a brood of jellyfish. It’s the seasonal
depression working against me. I’m
the pale son of October who’s too sensitive
to pollen. But not this year. My favorite
color is air and my favorite word
is myth. I wake to the taste of wonder
and pray the sun will see me flourish.
I may be soggy with sleep and the wispy,
leftover fragrance of night jasmine,
but let me be luminous. Strut with the fawns.
Collect sticks shaped like antlers, gather
antlers dropped by February’s deer. I see
the glittering magnolia trees, their lacquered
leaves and coral seed pods hanging
like pendulums, and amongst them, you.
Touch the thumbprint of fuzz in the hollow
of your throat. Eyelashes we kiss and make
wishes upon loosed to the wind. And yet
I’m not due for a miracle. A prince smooches
me and I turn into a frog. I swim among
reefs and get stung by sea nettle. A rash
the shape and size of the Florida peninsula
appears on my arm. See where wild spring
has flung us? The year evaporates briskly.
But you, my umbilical, weather the pollen.
All of this is to say, I’m always looking
to have it both ways.
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
