Notes of freesia and melon

popped up today,

a bit sickly sweet just like 1994

when the sun made few impressions

mixed with smoking meat and jungle drums,

I rushed through mentally

while my legs caught up eventually.

Years flickered by like the dancing fish

at the hands of a fisherman

in a flip book I once saw,

a few surprises but mostly

an inevitable ruin

that comes each time

I open my eyes now.

Blink. Boom.

Blink. Crackle.

Blink. Gasp.

I learned an Easter song

in a trailer that doubled as a schoolroom.

Feeling accomplished at age 7

pronouncing “rotogravure”

in a deep southern lilt

my parents mocked incessantly.

Years don’t seem to pass at Easter.

The hymns are the same. Same eggs.

Same palms from last week.

It’s a tired week, solemn

though many claim it’s a joy,

which it’s supposed to be.

I’ve always been confused by that.

Can’t quite get a grip

on what I was taught about going to hell

versus being worth anyone’s time,

let alone worth saving,

unless the savior is a hoarder

like of matchbooks and ticket stubs,

things used and meant to be discarded.

I’ve never managed an Easter bonnet either,

what with all the wild hair.

When I walk down the avenue,

it’s with more surety than I feel

and less pizzazz than I’d like

though maybe that’s what’s meant to be.

I saw a nature special

about fire and they used the word

“pure” over and over

which I felt at the time

was an odd term

for something essentially

destructive but they showed

its cleansing properties

and the clearing away of rubbish

to build anew, and I thought

how appropriate since a lover will say

“I burn for you” which I have discovered

can be the purest expression

of something potentially base

but beautiful once it blooms.

I’m watching my body shift

like the landscape outside the window

and it’s like spring won’t wait

with new blooms -fresh and unexpected

as I am caught unawares

feeling overwhelmed and eager

to rush across the room

just for a hug, long and warm

warm as the sun in March

trumping a windy day

a first kiss for an old body

feeling new yet inevitable.

Most days feel

dual, being a visitor of places

and resident of none

as the body becomes the vessel,

love becomes the home,

and people are mirages,

one after the other.

Beyond the brink of this time

is a whole

made of chaos and music and light,

and the damnable thing

about staying still

is you can only have one at a time.