Yes, you— my most constant dance
partner, activator of the learned
instinct to compartmentalize big,
messy feelings and wear a face
trained not to betray the seething
underneath— I hold you fully
responsible for my current
inability to let loose
the floodgates, for the choke-
hold that tamps the ugly
sobbing so far down, only weak
tears sputter forth though my grief
is a furious mill wheel driven by
volumes of water. I've heard of regions
that haven't experienced rain for millions
of years, and also of how, by 2050,
the world's smallest glaciers are predicted
to disappear. Yet here I am,
still trying to find a small sweet spot
between desert, oasis, and snowmelt.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
