First day the buds
begin to swell. No
matter. Tomorrow the
mercury will drop.
The birds were on
the maple early. I
want the body’s drug,
not under another
body but narcotized
by music in a minor
key until I shimmy.
I want coins on my
lavender skirt to
catch every last bit of
light they can suck up,
wildness pulsing, the
tremors, the snaky
undulations of belly and
hips. Quiver of fire. Me
and not me, always
something veiled.