the incongruous hurting of ache in the spring
like fungi I sunbathe
then die
could the storm/ coming
wear a silk robe/ moan
I imagine I’m capable
& sadly attempt pleasure
not yet disemboweled, not yet shat,
I ache like a constipated egg
I just want to hatch but
cannot break
could the coming/ storm
give a moan/ pour
if I look forward to flowering
it’ll make wilting less urgent
but if I look forward to flowers
if I look deep inside my throat
I’ll sing myself all the way
to some little moon
with no hint of starlight
nor discordant blooms
& like a warm, lost river
I’ll hope for a lake
where the storming/ calms
the coming/ loss
From rural Michigan, Nicholas is an optimistic depressive with trigeminal neuralgia, poor timing, and a modest criminal record. Recent poems have found homes at Puerto del Sol, FRiGG, Into the Void, The /temz/ Review, and Always Crashing. He lives in Alabama and is an assistant editor for Black Warrior Review.
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