the wind arrives with a familiar fury
she wonders whether or not to bury
her head, heavy still with last year’s
seasons — fireplace and smoke,
pores choked in acrid pain that won’t
wipe clean, just smears like tears
on skin that used to rebound,
resilient as a rubber band, now
snaps. awakened by the sound
of herself coming to. the truth.
and no way around it. but through
another season she goes, brave
like an iron poker in the fire
of time. she radiates attraction.
a mesmerizing glow. pretty to look.
but don’t touch. her heat will burn you.
the wind’s fury pulls her smoke up,
curls her exhausted air, like the hookah
the caterpillar tokes.
her ‘help’ rises from her cold ash,
disperses on the wind reminding her
who’s in charge — dear girl, not you.
not you.

~ Emily C.

10.6.17