You freeze my cheeks
this early spring sprinkle,
undecide if being frozen suits you.
You’re ruining my day.
Forgive me,
I’m sounding like children who melt.
I should have remembered my umbrella,
or jacket. I’m only frustrated because
I’m shivering. It’s not your fault
it’s cold and the winds decided to whip between buildings,
under my goosebumps
and into the marrow hiding inside. Your cleansing patter
on my cheeks conjure
street-river memories, stomping and splashing
with Brenna, my sister, by the gutter outside our house; your
heavens opening as we wait for the late bus
where only the brave sogged; a mood-drizzle
you pour after a lost home-game pushing
me to Pat for warmth; your sheen
over my windshield, blurred
by my tear-sheened eyes
after Joe broke up with me; running
with Stuart through your monsoon
like freed animals, itching
for a taste of mother nature.
You’ve been with me
all this time.
You know me. I’ll let you drown me
to prove I didn’t mean it.
Kendra Boyd studies Poetry and Fiction at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. She’s served on The Linden Review as Senior Editor and 13th Floor Magazine as Editor-in-Chief. Her writing strives to be experimental in form and language, while derived from personal and emotional moments in her life. Her work can be found in 13th Floor Magazine, New Note Poetry, and forthcoming in Clockhouse and Meetinghouse Magazine.
Related
