Menstruation in the Time of Global Warming

No snow on the ground
but broken thermometer—
air pollution, blood
on the linen, early

Sandstorm in a grocery bag,
lungs filled with down.
Trees inverted arteries,
copper wires for veins,
nerves taut as harp strings.

Last week it was sixty degrees.
Two weeks ago
the first snow of the year.

Tricycles and skateboards
prance into the lemon sunshine,
the birds have not returned
but crocuses, purple mouthed,
gape like featherless
sparrows amid a roar
of motors and news of strange weather.

There is a terror in spring
like the terror of burning oil wells.
Outside, a girl plays in the grass,
her breasts budding like apple blossoms
in a greenhouse filled with light.


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