Regular Poem: I Can Feel It

25 Apr

I can feel it
starting.

(Is this
how a werewolf feels
as the full moon draws near–
hears its bones creak in a new rhythm,
smells its pheremones change,
notices its senses heightening
and its hunger increasing,
itches in its nature,
chafes at the cacophony inside?)

I can feel it
starting
with each glimmering day
and each gooey night.

My skin is changing. Soon
I’ll be red, and I will smell
like sunshine–
equal parts butter and fresh grass and a
sweet salty sweat,
a dash of copper,
half a honeysuckle blossom,
burnt brown sugar.

It flew south for the winter–
vacationed on another girl for a while maybe–
but it’s back–
or it’s coming,
and I can hear the train it’s riding in on, chugging
down the line fast and hard and steady.

I can feel it
starting and stopping
on a chilly night,
the train pausing at a crossing,
rolling back for a checkpoint.

But I can feel it
starting.

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