you’re shrouded
in caricature of self under pressure:
embosked  in crouching vine,
twigs and berries, my clothing
and your permanent frost that
molds you into something
statuesque: a snowman frozen
in my front
yard but I’m suddenly feeling
myself so sun,
so warm:
arms wide open,

cherry lipstick,
leper with no island and a
strong want for community,
need to touch your fingers with
my tongue,
audacity,
some ire,
some unresolved bleak black,
and I’m mad at God for every season
that brings the buried back.
I’m not over it,
I’m batshit and
I’m terribly bereft.
I’m hot
they say.

you’re melting a
little and I keep talking about
myself to fill the space.
 I used to be
a vacant room
but now I’m full of
places,
suspect,
other people’s things,
vindictive trust and other people’s prayers;
the hurt of how they wear me once,
or at night or in their head
and then hang me like
an amulet above their door
to gawk at, clap at,
ask for favor like I’m God’s
only walking angel and really
i’m full of enmity and
you and I are both full of
me.      pinch your carrot nose
and wait for the high noon
rays to hit your coal smile
so you become the puddle
at my feet the thirsty
dog I leashed laps
quietly.

what do I long for?
the cloying puffs of air
near my ear saying
come here and
the weather changing.
i’m adding a hat to your costume when
a man taps me on the shoulder.
he wants to ask what’s become of the
others that came before you
and I want to get to the bottom of it
but everyone’s nervous.

“sun”

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