Spring Fever

I am spring fever’s bitch.

I am wrapped around her middle finger

which she has raised in defiance

of structure and order.

I cannot stop her

from spitting in the face

of all my responsibilities.

When I sit down to work,

She bangs pots and pans in my head

and I can hear the sun calling me out.

She wants me to burn

in the sun

till my shoulders and cheeks are

permanently flushed.

It’s like a hickey

signifying her possession.

“She’s mine,”

Echoes the sun.

 

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