Months (a series of mini poems)

By Chestina Craig

JULY
I have dirt under my fingernails, and blood places I never think of, and a storm under my curls, and a curl in my eyelashes and I can see my own dirt, and also I can see you, and all you can see is my storm and I am a cacophony and worth the risk and I am here, here, here.

AUGUST
You crack my jaw open
After you parted your own
(did you know that crack-used
To mean speak?)
We use our tongues
For both of these things.

SEPTEMBER
Compared to him you were a sun.
He is a lamp,
and when I look through my eyelids
It almost feels the same.
Except without any of the heat

DECEMBER
A room full of everyone
you love: just
fucking singing.
This new swelling.
This cacophony of sentience.
This safehouse.
Thank you.
Thank
you. Thank you.