Queen Anne’s Lace crochets the woods
while you unlearn love
knots and whipstitches,
hands harboring an ache
that doesn’t disappear
no matter how warm.
This morning’s breeze chased clouds
until the sun hovered overhead, a fist
hammering heat across the yard.
An ice-fire creeps up your spine, thrill
of a lover’s touch
replaced by dread –
a struggle to let the air caress
as it scoops the space
your breasts used to fill.
The bright wine-patch of the hummingbird
bewitches you: fire and fermentation –
two things pumping now through your veins.
Heart the hero and the villain:
your body the victim.
