Blueberries

I could smell

wood smoke

shimmy through the screen

of the kitchen window.

The warmest night

of the year

so far.

I have been choking

on the cold.

Frozen under ice.

I am numb

from the chill.

I am thawing

like hot dogs

in a steel sink.

My fingers.

A frosty fog

melting into drops.

I am awake now.

Waking.

So fucking tired

of chasing.

Somewhere

along the way,

I forgot

what happy

feels like.

I am a comma

where a period

should be,

A woman with

magnolia branches

growing from her

chest.

Pink buds

and grey wood

forcing themselves

through

skin and sternum.

Like teeth

breaking their way

through gums.

Raw pain

and the flavor

of blood.

An urge to be

more than one thing.

Flora and fauna.

Rock.

Dirt and ocean water.

Face ground into pillow.

Sparkling in

glitchy seconds

that break up the dark.

An existence dimmed

to a dull thud

that repeats itself

regardless of

nothing.

I long to smoosh things

like blueberries

between my thumb

and first finger,

but berries are

summer fruits.

I must wait for the days

of eternal light

and a thin dripping

of sweat

on the backs of my knees.

Of bare calloused skin

balanced on

outside things.

On concrete

that to me,

is as much like nature

as grass.