It must have been three or four in the morning
jumping from one naked bed to the next
imagining weeds growing out of my broken wing
and how some people leave them in the cracks
while others pull and trim.
Every soul needs a rim
every love a first and a last hymn
I don’t want to rhyme today
but the other half is in your sunny ray.
Someone pulled me out of my dream
he was tall
and spoke eloquently
with words of a poet
was it you?
Did you feel my naked skin?
The weeds are under the snow now
still -10 in the wind
as well as my heart.
Lying down in examining rooms
being spread out and memorizing
centimeters and numbers
cyst sizes and wild frontiers.
I imagine I would be pretty as a blonde
but I’m okay.
He looked so worried
talking to my old high school teacher
in a waiting room of women
with pretty robes and panoramic views of the city
from the tenth floor.
I feel like a weed though
I feel stuck between the cracks
and I’m not so sure
if I’m okay at all.