Seasonally Bullied

I tried to
Make amends with January, I
Shook his bony hand and batted my
worn out lashes, tried to sneak
a little warmth into his photogenic
Smile, he
Chattered his teeth in my direction
chapped my lips
Filled my ears with tire skidding, iron
Pipes moaning, flaking rust on those
too quiet mornings when the antique
snow has lost its luster
In the grey.

I am a balloon filled with too much air
My fibers are stuck tight and burning, jammed
Up and clogged drains, mangy
Tangles of ink hair soaked in head and shoulders suds
Black scribbles heavily doused in low
Quality white out, the kind that’s wet and smells
And kills brain cells.
I am the fog ridden road that tightens the nuts
And bolts in your spine and
Turns the radio off, pits
Sweating with the seatbelt
Tangled and rubbing, you
Forgot to take your jacket off again, you
Cranked up the heat to four.
I am the last neon
Orange coal in the woodstove sitting
Bright on chalky scales of heather gray,
All the embers that have faded
In the hollows of your mind,
All the aspirations
that you let yourself
Smother under
Blankets, in
Unnatural heat,
filled with
Dust,
mold,
and ashes.


Clara Mae Barnhart