January is a child no one prays for,

Who carries her grief

Like a turtle shell.

January is a cyanide tooth

Where insects whim about

their dirty handwriting in love letters.

January is a dragon fly

pouring hope into sewage

So that poor can be saved from hunger.

January is a near sighted god turning

Memory foam into a

Circle of sad bubbles that won’t break.

January wears dusk in her skin

Giving a second chance to

All red skinned Satans..

January finds softness in hearts

Of serial killers and waters

daisy seeds planted there.

January is a homeless melody

In a poet’s dream,

Not afraid to cross mine fields of

blood marked territories.

January is a daughter born

With the wrong questions.

A comet passing through

The wrong sky.

January is an introvert without

the privilege of forgetting,

spiking the drink with poison.

January is a paper heart in

shades of pink and blue,

crumpled yet beautiful.

January is a old woman

waiting for the burglars to break in

so that she can read Rumi to them.

January is a haunted house

without ghosts, but pieces of

Christmas cakes forgotten.

January is a throat where

strawberries and sorrows hold each other

after realizing there is more than an alliteration in them.

January is a nation of metaphors

on the lolling tongue of a stray dog,

whom no one takes to home.

January is a half finished heaven*,

A death that itself calls love.

 

 

                                            *coined by Tomas  Transtromer


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