by Rosie McInnes
I am always mourning summer ending but
I love the feeling of learning how to hold my body in the freeze.
I dream of lake silt and chest sweat and those clouds,
always a type of prayer.
They are long unfurled now and the poppies are decaying
somewhere and usually this destroys me.
Summer dies and the funeral is awful and not well attended.
Everyone brings gross casseroles over and then forgets.
But I now somehow am sitting here with ten more minutes till out the door and I am sprouting.
Soft and wettening in this dead time.
I will walk outside with medusa slick hair like I do all June.
Hair wet to breakfast from the lake at dawn not washed for days hair caked with sweat and played with by small hands and curling just right and getting snagged on the push pins above my bed when it’s late and I don’t have my light trying to find my way going home.
Mia sent me clouds and I miss her and I miss them and they are a prayer.
And the winter sky here is beautiful.
Rosie McInnes (she/hers): Rosie loves to play basketball and pretend, eat nachos and feel all the feels all the time. Boston-based theater artist, writer, activist and skilled pick-you-up-off-the-floor-when-you-need-it friend.