Again and Again

There is a thing
about dead mice
like half eaten chicken wings
like used tampons
that makes me believe
the world is redundant.

once you told me
making love to me is making love to the earth

I think I'm finally beginning to understand what that means that
a painted landscape is not nature that
the leaves change colors
that fluctuations mean nothing to the
overwhelming feeling of the air and the
wind and the sun

I cannot celebrate men
they've never understood the fluctuations and
the cycles or had
red life leak out them
I cannot find my many selves in their eyes
only the appreciation that I am what they are not

divide, divide

I.
once, you were mine. you belonged

II.
to me. my winters have always
belonged to you: dog-eared
blankets and the ground a soft
white belly footprinted with you,
our two hands teacupped around
each other, ruddy cold and stinging.
we argued over nothings unsweetened.
have you

III.
seen the deer? they miss you.
they turn their heads and look

IV.
for you at sundown.
I want something
to remember you by,

but snow melts
when I hold it.