Seasons
by Ashley DeVrieze
The internet mothers wear only taupe
and clean lines. They row perfect circles
around their harbor, leave a dancing ring.
Warm lemon water in the muzzled dark
of morning to cleanse, before coffee. Then ice
to reduce inflammation in the face, smooth
the wrinkles. A home like a womb, a white
feathered nest, filled with quiet. Rituals.
I last two days.
I forget. (A second only).
I watch as droplets fall from my oar, catch
the sunlight, cast salt spittle on my legs,
and suddenly my ring has turned oblong,
unwieldy. It breaks against the shore
like mirrors, like silver.
What is the name for the season of broken yolks
and untamed hems, mint spilling past
garden borders while foxgloves faint
in the heat, a time when abundance fences death,
its saber sharp? There’s enough oregano
to make a sauce, but not enough time
to sweep. The dirty tile stretches forward,
clips the binding, bleeding, breaching
promises made yesterday, but for tomorrow.