that was the summer we got lit and joked about it opening windows with fat of shame thick in our mouth. that was the summer face gathered to the surface stove in became subtly. that was the summer: a cloud. that was the summer we felt tenderness for the screenglow banked closer to the little noise spinning. that was the summer oldknown unfolded, peered in at us. that was the summer of scorchmarks on streets from the heat of our ravaging pity, peeling out. that was the summer of splitting bag. that was the summer with suspicion creeping to the top of the measuring jug and the string section rising up the scale. that was the summer the hooks from the eyes came softly apart.
fall came early and we knew it was coming but only theoretical as a not ours as a hers. fall came early with one precise snip at the base of the stem. fall came early and the gag was we’d thought maybe we weren’t a party to this biblical racket though she is born with death coiled sleeping in her bowels little snake of expiry ssssss. fall came early that year which we’ll call the year of our unmaking we had only known making since we were made, since we were made and went on making. fall came early, unlooked for but the rules of hospitality being what they are we thin-lipped we crossed her name off the list so. fall came early now we fall we fall we keep falling until we touch the until we hit the wait where
but the winter carved pipes from our bones and played that old jingle sound of which makes you tear your eyes out to fling steaming. but the winter unwhiched us; we might have continued passing, looking up, being momentarily. but the winter: clouding, cloud-dark, loud and cowing crowed down our backs herding us to itself. but the winter waned with a wound up wind winding sheets of whole woewhirled world and the word was gone. but the winter we didn’t understand so we frisked ourselves and turned up a few salty fragments. but the winter swept each crumb from the tablecloth with a silver-backed brush and retreated ‒ it was very thorough and very silent.
now, spring. now springs internal yet we can’t make a positive identification. now spring stands up and we pin ourselves to its lapel. now spring and we are ready to, haunches tense tentershooking for first warm gust we are lightening. now spring with a fine worm moon for turning up underneaths or what still lives to peck out of unmaking. now spring because what is an egg but a room without a door or some sly cracked crake come among your crows. now spring swings in beating her rugs raising a cloud and we watch for this new age like a parade balloon floating past upper stories to scattered applause. now: spring! for what is a body but a room you must destroy to leave.
Kate Feld writes essays, poetry, short fiction and work that sits between forms. Her writing has appeared in journals and anthologies including Hotel, The Stinging Fly and The Letters Page.
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