SONNET LACKING INTIMACY
JESSICA BIXEL / POETRY
And when I woke to find the snow littered with bees,
their bodies graven and overripe, I thought of you,
mother, your endless failures. How easily it could be
mistaken for beauty: those impossible winter garnets
or the fire you set gently on the ground. Sometimes
I forget what’s real. The house fades, then fades again.
I’m ungainly in this, and will tell no one for months:
homelessness is belonging only in your too-small body.
You’ve made me thin with fear. Each dark bruise a tulip,
mother. What if you hadn’t given in? I’d keep calling out
catastrophe, catastrophe and leave you or let you leave.
It’s possible we’ve always been this lonely—