Harsh winter wind leaves
a cold layer
over everything,
no way to get warm.
Icy air coats
our apartment,
the space between me
and my family.
Insides matching outsides.
At Yearbook, I enter
and they are already working:
the sports pages,
each sport a planet unto itself.
A few months ago
I would’ve loved to see
this focus, determination.
Now I just want them to go,
spin out, away.
One of them asks where the field day collage went—
the one I destroyed—
I say it’s already off to the printer.
A lie that
flies easily from my tongue.
A parachute of lies that
holds me up lately.
They say isn’t it early,
I say not for color collages.
They believe me.
I open my desk drawer,
the erasers, staples,
still sit so neatly.
When no one is looking,
I summon a storm:
with a thunder
I
hail paper clips rain tacks
turn order into chaos.