Seasons

The sun bleeds hot rays of low-level radiation
down the dirty window-pane of humanity.
And if blood flows like the Mississippi,
then it must be the river we can see from
the south side of the house.

The heat makes people crazy,
some almost ready to kill in a
frightened     sweating     frenzy.

But my mind goes
back
          to the winter of last year
              the winter of my soul:

Sobs and half-words knock
at the door of my ears as dream recedes.
The light is on in the bathroom
and I am in bed alone.

My stomach clenches
as if I had swallowed stone.

My feet are running before they hit the floor.

For all the words I've heard and forgotten before,
these words will remain forever,
"I'm not pregnant anymore."

1993