FEBRUARY

February picked cherries above my hair
and washed them down the riverside.
I heard the door knocking, which was just a threshold of bones where my grief pinned in between.
Another version I never asked when the kindling overstayed and bled in coral beam.

February knew I never really lived pretty,
stubbly legs dragged across the concrete,
throwing rocks at every slope that didn’t bend to my direction.
I used to hope for the ground to be soft,
for love letters to press sunrise between tomorrow,
and the night flight didn’t become lambs who ate God and called it love.

Listen, honey is slippery so what does it make me when dancing was the first lesson I learnt upon seeing restless feet under melting sun?
No more running, no more locomotive repeating
syllables of names I’ve burnt to keep the coal alive.
Listen, my fingers are still cold from the last defeat but the way you smile has marbled some nights in comfort.
So many dead stars around but you’re a silver coin, a solid hand to hold and bottled with light to pour out.

February found me as a child, a newborn thing unfurls into the morning and blooms again.
Here is where I howl in raging nights and here is where I still deserve to seep joy between the gritted teeth.
I know I’m still all the car crashes and blotchy stains when my migraine is around.
But these growing pearls basking in sunlight, casting life and evergreen,
don’t you think they’re part of me too?

— Also posted here.