I would let go, if only it came naturally
BY EMILY PITTINOS
The water has a way of happening, lapping at Mosquito Beach, wearing the sandstone down sweetly, layer by layer. I can feel it coming on, my season of lavish suffering, the why me why me why me why me that leaves me snowblind in the asking. Pennies planted to coax hydrangeas produced a crocus by mistake, its beak opening through spring snow. I begged for rain instead (knowing the late-late frost is a kind of murder), so feel failed prayer hot against my ear. It is terribly easy to take on another’s pain. Or at least to consider it taken. My eye shimmers with robbery. Should I be ashamed? I may say the wrong things, but there is no right way to say nothing will change. On my dulled day, the poet brags he could break into blossom. What do lost daughters burst into?