Jenny says the robins are a good sign.
It’s the third day of spring in Oconomowoc
but the lake is still frozen, mostly frozen, anyway,
there are gaps in the ice, but there are gaps
in everything: teeth, the bristles that meet the teeth,
the contractions in this poem. It’s the third day of spring &
the sky wants to yell. But the robins are out.
Jenny says, Good robin, swallow what the air
left. & it does. I’m in Oconomowoc so I never
have to go back to Oconomowoc.
There’s a problem with my hands. It’s the third day of spring
but the doctors want my hands to look like winter.
I don’t blame them. The doctors are pushing a lawn mower
through my brain. I imagine garden shears along my temporal lobe,
I imagine a lot of things: a bag full of only red Skittles, free Xanax,
a mirror above her bed. Come kiss me in an elevator. On an escalator.
Like window cleaners up a high-rise.
I felt the sun today. It felt better than the sun I felt yesterday.
Spring is one long nature porn, thinspo in a woodpecker-
ed tree. Every morning, a money shot outside my window.
Every morning, something meets its first morning.