BY Janelle Elyse Kihlstrom
The stillest moment of the year
remains a jubilee,
where just outside the window
muddy music, shards of crabshell
settle on the deck.
The ancient smell of grass remains,
and poems in scarlet
clusters, scattered by the shovelful.
For some other time.
Not June with its double entendres,
July with its virgin
coladas. There never was another
time. Your name now
instead of a starfish. Your turn
to say a thing
that's birthed in blood can't be
rendered in water.