You, my snowstorm mother—gray lady
of winter destined to suffer, wailing
like one of the damned as death shudders
through you with an echo. An echo
of the hollow girl stolen away by the sun;
an echo of an angel sprouting curls,
just like mine.
With autumn comes another apocalypse
and crackling leaves sounds like hellfire.
I loom beneath your possessed skin,
a beautiful demon made by the blood
stained on your hands. I weigh so heavy
in your once-vacant soul that concrete breaks
under your footsteps. Every crack is an open
wound that, by some miracle, we float above
on wings of hope.
I meant what I said in my first breath—
your fallen sunshine still glows inside me
after all these years, a stubborn flame
morphing me into impossible colors.
The wilted March tulips you grew share
my thudding pulse; I will be your bridge,
just a spine bent with devotion, and carry
you to heaven after every storm.