About March

My body shrinks. My despair grows.
I wonder why there are two fire detectors
in every room of my apartment.

The chicken bones boil over
in the pot, drip pans scorched
and pooling water, water everywhere.

Outside the ground begins to thaw,
water pooling in my basement,
rotting leaves and clicking radiators
and a forecast for more snow

before the thaw again. Repeat.

On the east wind I can smell
ice breaking on the lake,
a salty, metallic taste
like sodium that’s sat
in a steel shaker in the back
of your kitchen cupboard
for too many months,

and underneath,
the red-hot coils
of burner turned
way up past HI
to push past fish
freshwater bubbles,

ice cooling into steam to rise
off hard packed shores to curl and slip
along past cars on Washington
condensing into clouds above

221 Seymour Avenue,
where rain falls limp
and pools,
damp, along
my windowsills.

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