december is grief. our sun is only a star, carving
my throat open when i swallow light, tangible. i see
you in the gaping hollow of your absence, around
molten edges, and my mother calls me hanuman.
my mother says, be better, says, you’ll do more like
a shattering femur.
i split my chest apart, split my skin, blood-slick hands
wrapped around a dark handle and blade limned by
decemberlight, and your touch-worn notes fall out.
one day, we’ll be done with this:
one day, you’ll leave your fingerprints soft on my
pieridaelungs, and i’ll hew fruit apart while your legs
dangle from a marble countertop, and i’ll slip grocery
lists and sticky notes against the gentle harpcurve
of your ribs, and –
december is a ravaging. i bleed, an arrowhead excised
from my flesh, still dripping red from my curled hand,
and my mother braids my hair. i watch the sky.