Nights lately,
I see ice floats stretching
like clouds toward a horizon
I can’t reach. The mirror streaks
and smears, refuses to stay clean,
insists on inserting its texture
into my reflection.
The nurse practitioner says
Traumatic is anything that still
affects me; the professor
says the root of suffering
is sin. My father says
I should be over all of this by now.
I shouldn’t still be thinking
about white walls and blue
non-latex gloves, about orange juice
after bloodwork and what
his pastor says about queer love.
My father texts me photos of bleeding
hearts and redbuds blooming
in the yard, and yes, it is spring.
Dandelions spark beside daffodils.
When I pet the rabbit, her hair
comes off in white clumps.
The only snow on the sidewalk
is pear blossoms, and although
tomorrow used to be a place
we would walk to together,
these mornings I still see
a candle in a room at the end
of a hallway, and its flame
flickers, still trying.