Sackcloth becomes skin in these easy years
with fat on the bone.
I have bled the winter out; acceded to
hot, pregnant winds slapping trees and budding puffs
of magenta on our part of the street.
The old ice is nothing but slop under the fever of June,
the old lover just a breath held too long
and I have also forgotten you-
your leprous betrayals
and sick leaves.
Goodbye to spindly grey forms and
the curses that come with you.
Free, wet and blue
like morning,
I am only occupied with new things.
New lemony sky spirals setting foreheads
New wine singing in the breast of the seasons.
New loss like a fresh, red laceration of the thigh.
Only this new spouting blood.

© Raichelle Mincey 2017

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