Small quilled poem with no taste for spring

Fotografia de Yang Miao

In spring all the poems that need to be written
Have. You are neither dejected nor relieved. Scrape and
Paint. Scrape and paint a gray house white.
Feel something! Your husband, the one married to all the
appetites.
Shouts to someone up on a ladder, someone who looks sort of
Like you: disinterested, spated, thin as a cloud.
It's spring again and so the melancholiacs. And so the fat
Sharp animals pace your roof at night: feeding, quilled,
recurrent
Dreams. You will never live up to this
Life, they will never refer to you as voluptuous.
You can't remember the last time
You wore a dress.                                        You pressed your mouth
To the phone.

Olena Kalytiak Davis