By: Aran Donovan
Thoughts in spring
All spring’s about the bee made queasy
By errant dazzle. It behooves
One to eschew routine.
Does not agree? What sates that drive
If not a little pattycake, some
romp into the fray. An ape haunts
my azalea. It’s a laughing of flowers,
such jaunty Of even lamer blooms.
Thought crepey. It’s true I am
I am the marrying age. A serious lawn
Depends upon a lot of reaping and sowing.
Hold a mirror up to the buffet.
how we are perfectly disproportionate
jesusgod diagnose me: immoderate,
licentious, petty, I am
out of order. argue with a bus, don’t
argue with a bus. half a blue car
on a highway and no children. these
ratios: crush of morning: chaos:: circumference
of siren: red
brakelight; the clerk at walgreens
calls me baby, seeing how tired.
my fist that could hardly swing
a punch. we are disproportion. anything
could happen to us.
On the first nice day of spring and not pretty
To be so Hulga in my dress. To be so lunk and lugging
So Hulga and distressed ka-thunk
It was spring outside but to be part of such.
Not with these thighs!
It was not my nature race up stairs
Not in my nature to sway golden at a party, lifting pretty
Little arms in a light
Always attic, always stacks, ways
My crutch, my labored, my selftwisting
Who could love such a solid amble, such an ample
Who could
No need. Am wedded already to overhumble mother
Won’t have my druthers Won’t have my any
Have made my bed
And ate all my philosophy of plenty
Aran Donovan lives in New Orleans. Her poetry has recently appeared in Barnstorm Journal, The Common, The Collapsar, and The Journal and is forthcoming in Peauxdunque Review. She tweets sporadically @barelymarigny.
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