Keep the Earth

The snow melts in oceans across the parks, but it freezes just as quickly again. Vast expanses of smooth glass ice cover the city, treacherous but hopeful: hesitant, but determined. The ratio of gravel to snow in the plowed piles at the end of the street changes. The sidewalks are dirty, my boots dusted.

She arrives from the old pasta factory on Kent Avenue, says Maybe we are done with that city now. Maybe it is time to move on, and I didn't realize it broke my heart until later. We try to catch up the year that's passed but the coffee cup is not large enough and the March wind outside is so malevolent, my fingers freeze and crack under worn-down fingernails. My jaws slowly wind shut, like an iron drawbridge and there's no magic word to ease the hold; the familiar ball of black yarn tightens itself in my gut, arranges itself uncomfortably, prepares for expansion.

The whole way home from work I mouth the words to the music in my ears, it can't be helped. It's the only thing that keeps my legs moving, my lungs breathing. Melting ice caps, spring flood, gravel, gravel, gravel, they dislodge from my still frame, they tear out all the sleeping violences within, stir the pot, pull it out of my pores and I scramble to sweep it all under the rug in time but it is too late.

The sun shines so brightly into the little apartment at the top of the steps, lately. It touches the dusty corners and warms the sprouting windowsill. A quiet body shivers inside, paces restlessly, mouths the words.

Pulls the blinds.