Ode to Leaving Katharine Anderson
whatever winter did to you is inconsequential. the fractals of black ice where bruises once bloomed from his mouth, days spilling into long nights like flat champagne poured down the bathroom sink, forgetting what the sun looked like when you entombed yourself beneath his sheets. come january, you were still dizzied by the colors of december lights, the warmth of holiday meals long rotting in the fridge when all his chapped palms felt like were dead flowers, raw and bleeding and chafing your cheeks with every caress.
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you must praise the mutilated world that is your body. lift up the sheets, and praise the blinding that comes when you finally greet the sun once more. open the blinds. the air tastes like peppermint. the oven is on. the bath is drawn. the lights in the yard will still be good for next year. you can have soft animal skin again.
