print previewback ARHM CHOI WILD
For Who Spring Is No Laughing Matter
but the antiseptic to the wound
ashen and forsaken, bathing in the blazing
optimism of forsythia,
the gentleness of magnolia as if all
your past lovers are finding you to say
there is nothing to forgive.
We have been turned into cicadas,
seventeen years sleeping in the soil,
clocks so slowly wound down
we’re almost going backward.
When we emerge from the fear
that has kept us indoors
and hungry for touch
and click click clicking online,
we will be so busy
fucking every other cicada
we will make postcards
of our old skins,
hang them on the bumpers
of parked cars and patio armrests,
the sidewalk noisy
with all we have ripped off
to bare our new, pale skin. 
Ars Poetica 
Break Up Poem
For Who Spring Is No Laughing Matter
It Is 6 p.m. on the 2 Train Downtown
When You Put on Your Binder Smelling Like Lavender