February is nothing, neither winter nor spring.
I was born there, in the lag, in the canyon of the year.
To one who remembers by her nose, I recall
cold, slush, air, and copper, and the odor of strip malls.
How many stories does a car carry? Journeying wheels
are the bookends of our past, vehicle reminiscence
is a highway of sudden plans and accidents. Was my soul
brought to my body by way of a station wagon?
I do not know what weather my mother weathered
to get me out of her, what droves of slicing frost she fought
to get me from womb to human hand to plastic tub –
but a sensing, like rain around the bend, that not a whisper
of wind blew, that the sky chose not to blare. No wild
trumpets sounded, no trees cracked twain and fell.
I’ll say, night was still, so still, my wails cut the dark.
Father rejoiced, mother caved and sighed,
and my sister likely grieved, for she was no longer
the only child. Now, enough tyre tracks have been left
for me to follow the winding path down to the lagoon
where ice steams, where the gods broke off twigs
and made my crown, where sombre spirits
knitted with numb fingers, my robe slung around my
shoulders, heavy as the morning hours before dawn.
Exhaustive, I am, from first breath, to here,
weary, am I, from final words, to banshee cry.