Forsythia follow me everywhere
with their unavoidable yellow flourishes and
no, I do not think they are beautiful or want
them to mean anything other than
that they do follow me. By not leaving, I am
afraid that I choose to follow them too.
My body’s condition remains
tense; inflections do not come easily
but are inevitable the way
our young tongues have trouble giving
old words new meaning.
We find such a task excruciating
but others bare it. I enter
the Orb of Weapons room and am
transfixed. What else could I have
imagined but now all I dream of is
pulling them down from their
stuck spots and arranging them together
across the floor boards: anvil beside
nunchucks beside hammer, neat and clean.
The air here burns and clings to the skin
and I am startled when my fingers get
caught by a glitchspot as I reach
forward to clutch a kitchen knife.
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