How badly I want to write you something new journal, But all year long it’s been the same Poems, over and over
The pine branches look like thin ribs again the spruces in their robes that drape The pond like hammered silver, again flinging the light off tiny waves The hens move in one bob still again they gather at the fence in trailing shape
And will it always feel like the chilled spring, when they sent us packing?
As I was driving back on I-95, the raindrops huge slow and hard, I did see something new from my car a black knot of birds exploded right when one raindrop hit so loud I thought I could hear the flock breaking apart
How badly I want to write you something true journal, But if I didn’t live this out someone else would —
Just pulling on a loose thread again, to fray a pattern or fix a stitch Time feels like a hem, again and pain is fabric caught in the clip, sew machine running up seams, again, bunching them up, hearing them split
Will you always do them like you did me, setting up for tailored dread?
Well, I saw Bunny in the window And I tell you I almost called out lady, wearing his clothes won’t make you his baby You must dress yourself, can’t dress no one else, can’t dress for two, hung up like a coatroom But I know how it feels to look nice in costume
How badly I want to write you something rude journal, But if I start ragging on him Soft love tut-tuts me
Around and inside me, again — the stretch of silence, counting penalty Fastened tight, rocking slight, again — defer, defer blame, defer decision to infinity Breath, felt and held, again — withdrawal, a weapon, and softening, my currency
Will I at least get back my simple heat now that nobody’s juking me?
Suppose it did come rather easy to breathe with Cas on a roof on Dwight swapping selves in broad daylight, And snowy Noah came soliciting, readily enough, bold joyful pressing, Oh, once I’d kissed Kathleen a sec for days I couldn’t get her waking up naked out of my head, Then this dream of you looking seedy sucking a cigarette, making me queasy
How badly I want to write, you something new journal, but I mirror a body of work been here twenty years
My breasts in ellipse like bells again ringing when I sit up and settling apart, arranged on my chest, whole bells again competing with my shoulders for Most Graceful Rounded Part My mind is mirror-manifest again and when I move, it moves, and when I jump, it starts
Will I get by looking like this won’t I ever have something to make?
Well, I tried whittling in the park The wood was lightweight from my yard I cut away a handle of three shapely knots When I got to the basin of my spoon the wood revealed its rot, and I can’t do much but strain soup Got a nice spoon that can’t serve or scoop.
How badly I want to write you something new journal But all year long it’s been the same Poems, over and over
The pines the pond the farm the hens The seam the stitch the fraying ends The breath the dark the mouth the bed The breast the mind the heart the rest
— Sophie Kyle Collins is a junior in Benjamin Franklin College.