With the end of every semester comes a period of reflection; at least it is for me.
This time last year, every day was at least 70 degrees and mostly sunny. I had just met three friends that would influence me to be myself in ways I hadn’t been comfortable with before. These friends and I would spend afternoons in the plush grass behind our apartment building, drinking and laughing and loving each other with open hearts.
I spend a lot of time thinking about how different things are now, only a year later; and I spend a lot of time thinking about whether this difference is good. This winter feels like it has withstood the strength of fall and spring combined to let us know she means business. I would like to fire her. Or break up with her. Or pack my bags and leave her unannounced.
Either way, I can’t help but envy the version of myself that existed one year ago; the version that was inspired to get to know herself instead of the version that’s trying to suppress her. As I write this, the sun tries oh so desperately to break through the clouds, and I, too, am trying.
Not too long ago, I wrote a poem about wishing winter away. I hope you all enjoy it.
P.S. This is our last blog post for a bit, but be sure to check in at the start of the Fall 2018 semester! Its been a pleasure writing for you all.
Jenna, Spring 2018 intern
I Do Not Love Winter Morning
Winter morning and I undress, cloth by cloth,
against the mildewed drop of the bathroom tile.
I flick the shower nozzle to boil, and rock–
an eager rock–heel, toe, then back
again as I wait for the frozen breath of her
early daylight to freshen in the steam.
She whistles a chilling note that bounces
with the sleet’s percussion on the sill.
It whips at the fibers of this drafty house, this
meshy skin, to shudder the walls awake.
My figure fades in the mirror as I grit my
teeth and pray the fog wrap its sweaty fingers
around winter morning’s throat and dissolve her
in its humid grip.
Winter morning groans that she’s lonely as I suckle
the leftover night-heat nestled in the corners of
my mouth. She thinks it playful when I melt her
from the cubicle and slips, sultry, down the drain.
Spring, my dear,
I echo the birds that hum of your arrival in my sleep.
Spring, my flower,
I fear I cannot pretend to love her any longer.