1
March days we plan
with lists, yet life
keeps happening.
2
Mornings, I hide from light
as you leave, your bag fat
with textbooks.
March brings me low—
days of sleety snow
and waiting for another
mapping of the body
in this month of its
annual audit.
3
Usually, I’m like a willful
child with a toy trumpet
blasting my way through
but March silences me.
4
These nights I dream
I’m in a famine field
weakly negotiating
the potato ridges,
my head unhinged
from a cabbage only
diet.
When you’re gone
I walk the mornings
then stare the afternoons
away at the big screen.
At dinner we talk
other people or politics.
We practise normality,
our gauge set taut.
5
In sleep you mutter
things I can’t decipher
and hold me so fast
I wake.
6
Today I’ll be in a hospital
paper gown again,
but when I daydream
we trampoline together.
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