Spring pushed Winter off the Empire State last night
A poem.
Spring pushed Winter off the Empire State last night.
They fought after one too many spiked hot chocolates.
Winter had touched Spring’s leg and threatened to stay a while longer.
Now every woman in the park wears bike shorts —
A nylon memorial for Diana.
And every time we push our hair back with sunglasses,
we think fondly of The Parent Trap’s Chessy:
“Can I hug her?”
Yes, yes!
These days, you’re the only one allowed to hug her.
A girl at the store bites into the tomatoes in her mom’s cart,
chomping into the roma, the cherry, the grape,
peeling the skin with her teeth
from ones meant for caprese.
Nobody’s told her the socially-constructed difference
between fruits and vegetables yet,
between adoration and obligation.
I still feel obligated in spring to tell the funny story:
about the lover who refused directions
and led us astray.
Listeners accept my exasperation at this refusal as affection.
I adore that story too much to tell
the other story,
the one about my refusal,
or protest… or at the very least,
a noticeable reluctance?
Some distrust for tomatoes,
a hesitancy to bare my teeth.
