It’s a glimpse of spring in January, gossip of daffodil, tulip embryos too eager to meet sun. The night has a thousand

eyes, and I learned in December how to undress, unashamed, in front of them; their pupils lingering on me into daylight like perfume on a left wrist.

Under snow’s weight, we swallow the rich, care not for the slow taste of sweetness, desire only salt and copper, fat and marrow—feral cure for winter.

But this year, it’s a swallow of candy floss sunrise musings, ribs lined with ichor, tongues swollen for want of plump peaches, strawberries sooner in season.