My mother went
to this naturopath, once,
who said casually
you know, you grew up
overseas—you probably
have parasites.
Parasites mate
during the full moon.
Do you ever feel weird
during the full moon?
My mother did not feel weird
during the full moon
but I feel fucking weird
every spring
because the parasite
of the memory
of you and you
gone and how
comes surging in
on a wave of cherry blossom
late-night fake
Mexican food childhood
screaming late for school
room-temp bottles
of Coke and Fanta and
what this is
is not a season,
but a graveyard.
Stones dull in a half-assed sun,
flanked by grass
beaten flat by grief
and its horseman.
An annual visitation,
overseen by faceless angels
and the first of the crocuses,
arrogantly shoving
through still-hard soil,
waving life’s pitiful
little yellow flag
and grinning
up.