There are expectations that begin with …
the melting of snow and warm, spring weather.
Circles of grass are now visible
under the spruce trees. The driveway is a rink
of icy slush and frozen fingers.
In time, spring will come. But at this moment,
my house has become a cage of baseboard bars
and whirling fans.
My mind wants to escape from the ribs
of the staircase and rush along dirty, side streets
and up garbage rivers. There is more to spring
than just a change in temperature.
There is the thrill of walking into victory
with fists raised up and lips bleeding.
There are other expectations that begin with …
“I have decided to move in.” For what purpose!
Your beige walls are the same camouflage colour.
They are covered in the same drab spray of seal oil.
The low ceiling is sand packed and spider cracked.
When I look closer, I see that you have been
sweeping the floor with steel traps.
Your breasts are aflame and your face is flush with
a burning pregnancy. My hands are threatening
to melt into a slaughtered, devouring ice pack.
You move like a she-wolf planning a sly attack.
My animal heart has every reason, not to surrender,
towards your exclusive, gnawing pleasure.
The spring leaves begin to turn towards the sun
and to fill up chlorophyll and water. The stems
have grown into a cladophyll of capillary whirlpools.
Our expectations have also conquered the bony grip
and have taken on a new child, to our green bosoms.
Copyright © The JR Collection
of Wasaga Poems. Let’s Go There!