Regret is a Blade of Snow at My Window Beige; a bland interlude against the prism of this window. I never said I couldn’t be loved, but love deadens the scent of you, love. Trees re-imagine weather on sensational arms. Bushes brace under tentacles of hope. I am wrought in black, no escape from complicated latches, a twig picking brittle locks in my metal garden. The fence is beautifully iron, curtains flaunt invitations like a novice. Shadows import the body’s vision of itself. Thumbs run amok over the splinters of erect panels. Day contracts, night expands like wet wood. A trinity of owls grimace under woeful tiaras. Who will prime their breasts with paint in the spring? I have interred a memory to this vision of regret; snow dazzling as a blade at my wrist. Maeve O’Reilly McKenna
15
