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The Months
- Red Hen Press
- Chapter
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42 the mOnths Part of me, jagged piece but admitted, rejoiced to remove the year from its nail, its weepy days, blank months. December’s Arctic fox just too much of you to stand—plush broom of tail, pointed ears, dark eyes in white. Not you, of course, but constant visitor to this chair where I face wall and window beneath which you lie in winter. So I folded away that wretched year, the damned year that ruined us. But I ask truly, what hope renews? January’s polar bear pensive and gentle with her cubs, Feb.’s snow leopard and tufted, kitten-cute brood? Puppy, is there anywhere, from the drilled North to the melted Bering, to the desecrated Himalayas, where a beautiful ghost won’t take my breath? ...