jeweled city

yes even in february get out of bed. walk off your rumblesome. dreams
of disaster. try, before dawn. pull on boots, mud caked, ski jacket,
cloud blue, clean gloves. there’s disturbing news on the radio – threats
of war, careless wreckage – there’s disturbing news in your solar

plexus. your complex of ganglia and radiating nerves. your sympathetic
system. pit of your stomach, a chakra, in sanskrit, jeweled city. walking
you wonder. how? to quit a bothersome conflict – drop a missile on it!
– except, your cheeks, scrubbed by this blast – it’s so fucking cold -
your gut won't shut up – afraid of being punished like that. sunrise,

blurbs of cloud, purple gauzing of mountains, hacked light. a few trees
bearing buds, blood red. ages old, sugar maples leak sap into taps
remind you of going. to therapy. scouting all the stiff listeners. to trust
and choose barbara –

white gauze hazing french doors, mahogany framed, behind which you
sit. sucking her pleasant, vapor-like kindness, ready to split. open like
chicken. breasts raw, salted and peppered for roasting. sunbeam through
glass. breath of fine books, shelved on warm walls. until your third
session. she leaves you

waiting. seconds, minutes, a half hour beyond – you flee. pass a hearse
on the highway. cross the gulf over a bridge, certain you’ll never go
back. not even, for whatever her reason, she’s sorry. admits her
mistake, kindly asks for a second. chance. no, you will drop. a missile.
explode on her false french fucking doors. smithereens

– listen. february. birds in shrubs, evergreen. where they nest, making
noise. cardinal, a female, mostly brown, but red crested. showy, her
mate, noisy, red blooded. follows her up to the top of an oak, leafless,
they perch. down-slurred, they sing. whistle, two-parted. louder than
your liver, gall bladder – remember? you chose. not to blow barbara up

sanctuary. its soundproofing. all the noise you must make where nobody
is harmed. wrecked city you enter, damaged, a door

Kelly DuMar is a poet, playwright and workshop facilitator from the Boston area. She’s author of two poetry chapbooks, All These Cures, and Tree of the Apple. Her poems, prose and photos are published in Bellevue Literary Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Crab Fat, Storm Cellar and more. Kelly is on the board of the International Women’s Writing Guild and produces the annual Boston Writing From Your Life Retreat. She founded the Farm Pond Writer’s Collective, now in its 3rd year, and the Our Voices Festival of Women Playwrights at Wellesley College, now in its 11th year. Her blog, #NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream, is at kellydumar.com