No Snow

I was listening
to the night inside me
without rain or snow
organizing pens
in a glass jar
wondering if the space heater
was as homicidal
as it sounds.

All of nature
is educated guesses
crashing into colors
doing things
to minds. And flavors,
I suppose, museums
full of flavors.

Christmas is over,
grandma watching
The Handmaid’s Tale,
screaming with laughter
and still liking
our president the tree stump.
We decide to exchange pasts
instead of presents.

Another year gone
to the wolves,
I go for a long walk
before morning, all the faces
melt to the one feminist deer
stands on a blue hill
before the sun gets
in my shrinking eyes
and says don’t worry
you cut-out person

the forest has our back.