May in Massachusetts
by Chloe Honum
A pair of boots, hanging by their laces from a power line, swings in the cold
breeze. Beneath them: a blue pebble, a ring of ice, figurines of snow–
things left on winter’s shelves. Today, I have boxes to pack; dust, dirt, and
dead flies, like black asterisks, to sweep from the corners of the apartment;
a set of keys to leave behind. Spring, where is your heart? The year is five
months old and already its skin is torn. Spill your tonics. Raise your needle.
Hummingbirds wait to fly backwards through its eye.