Evelyn Lauer

If You Were a Month

You’d be March, really. In the Midwest, say Iowa.
Though unusually warm, and people are wearing shorts
for the first time since Labor Day.

You are the whiteness of everyone’s skin,
the new pair of sandals blistering my feet,
the river melting with ice.

You are the snow that fell a week ago,
and the snow that will certainly fall in April.

You are the cold everyone will catch tomorrow,
the flowers that won’t bloom until May.

You are the love in the air, the almost love
in the air, the not-even-close-but-for-the-moment
love that is about to take over the air.

But you are not the red leaves falling
on Washington Street, or the bicycle
I ride on a Saturday afternoon as they do.

And you are not the love that has grown
into something more, something more like October.


Return to Volume 1.4






All files © 2005-2012 Blood Orange Review