The shortest day in winter followed me around
and wouldn’t leave me alone.
The snow fell, settled, formed a society
on my flesh. The flakes tried to melt the front of my shirt,
wanting me disappearing or naked.
Every year a new one replaced its elder sibling, whispered
things will be different this time around.
My wanderlust was thin, brackish,
easily diffused. I told myself I was going to see the summer solstice.
I never got there, as the crocus belonging
to the shortest day in winter unfurled in my hand —
a piece of bitter electricity in my mouth
filling my insides like the bullets of a warm gun.
Winter slices my year/body into fourths.
Tomorrow the solstice erases itself
again. There can be an anniversary for any day
that I’d like. The solstice’s birthday
is also the anniversary of the day I swore I would
only love things that hurt me