And for what is almost too red-purple, its

brilliant scar skin not yet faded, an

astrology of wounds now closing. 

The gaping of my chest November,

the stiffness of February, 

and now to be dethawed

on a bus in June.

Last night, I sat on my carpet

knitting a wreath. Chamomile flowers

foraged from the corner grocery.

I saw you when I spilled a cup of water,

dipped my fingers in the wet, laughed

at the absurd tenseness rolling through me.

The corners of my eyes still know, and

when I shift too strangely into my joy

it becomes like sorrow again - different

and ugly, human and divine.