Breadcrumb #526

SUSAN KONZ

Lilac stalk’s a hail Mary in the dead of winter,
salve to all my copped promises. I drive, loping 
through spent apple orchards – snow collapses 
off shingles, trees shudder and unburden 
themselves,  but I am not like them – 
since you are gone I run hot.
My core, burnt honey that sings 
through me, ossifies. I show the man 
a picture of a flower you loved and apologize 
for its prettiness.  Want, 
in the dumb charge of grief, to feel 
each pluck, each singe and do.  I am 
mute,  my pain glacial and sharp 
as a scalpel.  Outside the people walk past, 
their toes clanging in frozen boots 
– I cannot go home. I watch purple bloom 
the blood at my wrist, bend my body tonic
to elegy. Caught in the back of my throat, 
a prayer for spring.

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