by Lisa Russ Spaar
A wrist of sticks cut, thrust in water
to force the sweet crease of cherry flosses
& then forgotten now thickens with fur-dross,
greeny on the windowsill through which a neighbor’s
radio pines in Friday-night nostalgia
to the tune of a six-pack of something.
An old story, Romance: On such an Evening,
the Light, &c.—unhinged by sudden thaw,
the wind dovetailing through strappy trees
its clair, its eyeblink—brings to the darkened
space of a fisted ribcage a fresh chance.
Lift the lid, unbend the stiff, sprung figure
of speech within, tutu spread like the spirit’s bloom
ringing body’s vase with the snowy ropes of freedom.
Last updated December 17, 2022