No Wonder
Kate Angus

Spring's for suicides-all those things blossoming: crocuses,
hatched birds, young lovers. Winter

matched your mood at least: bleak, brackish,
dirt-swirl dregs under ice in the cistern.

Now everything is sunlight, warm, an ambergris
evening where the girls are young as you no longer

and walk with tall men in Noah's Ark pairs holding hands.
Look at their breezy little dresses, floral prints.

Look at their long and flowing hair. Your old dog
yipes and groans on the cushion by the rib-caged radiator

flecking steam and chips of silver paint. Your skin is
a dry wooden floor. Ravens are a gif flapping into the distance

up the left side of your open browser window. Remember
when an open window meant only air?

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