The skin on the back of my neck
is a barometer of fear and sadness—
also, the wisteria arrived
today, after weeks of waiting.
This cream will trick the skin,
each cell’s confusion soothed
of its too fast shedding.
sent me to my therapist.
purple lanterns. What I mean
about the wisteria is—I do
experience joy. I do love
being married. This line of trees
along the yard and the wisteria
raised up high
in the topmost branches, the little purple
globes like they were sewn in
among the leaves.
Why would worry
bother this patch of skin?
And why would skin, in moments
where my brain sees fear, skin
shed too fast before the next layer
has had time to assemble?
None of my doctors know, or
they don’t have time to tell me.
There is a cream designed for this very thing.
How does the wisteria know
to form the grape cluster shape, the grape
drink smell, bees swarming to make
more of it. I said to Amy
I think you’re religious if you believe
there’s an order
to the universe, and if you believe
your life fits into that dark,
vast machinery. On my door
this morning, a moth
8 inches in wingspan—
I could measure it because of the dew: it
was stuck there until warmer air
would clear its wings