THE MONTH AFTER THE CRUELEST MONTH
BY ANNE BARNGROVER
is silk and velvet, redbuds and forsythia,
lace-white pear trees backlit
in a streetlamp’s planetary glow—
a grinning dog chasing cars in tall grass
like gold tassels—some fool
burning wet green wood in the near
distance, the rising smoke with a bad
smell that creates no heat, no clear
purpose—how I no longer feel out-of-love
but simply not-loving. I established
this pattern years ago. For one month
I believe I can be someone’s dream
girl, falling for someone’s charm
like a migrating bird—the bright flicker
of feathers, the rare trill threading
the dogwoods—then gone. I’m down
on my luck again, pissing off every
man around. You can call me jaded—
it fits me like a dress that’s so tight
I can’t properly sit down. Every woman
must come to a crossroads. I fulfill
no one’s dream so therefore I am
everyone’s foe. Oh, charmer—
I have learned your bright alphabet
of night-blooming flowers. There
will always be dirt in your nails
and smoke on your breath. There
will always be smoke in the trees.
