Perpetual Spring

Perpetual Spring

I sit in the breeze of a doorway

at the psychiatrist’s office.

The vase beside me holds dead

daffodils that wave at nothing

like the collar of a man alone in the desert,

grit gathering in the crest of exposed rib,

the vultures are not cruel.

The man beside me flinches at the sound

of a window being closed.

Before too long, before my need to urinate,

I am called to the back room of Dr. Shawls.

My baseball cap hides my tangled  hair.

Have a seat.

The vinyl sighs. There is a young palm

in the corner with fresh fronds.

It is me and this woman squeezed by a bit of tropic.

I think light. I think fire. I’m shielded

from her penetrating stare.

Her question pinches my flame;

she wants to know if I hoped to die

from my fall off the bridge into the bay.

My mind pauses on swan,

how their heavy bird bodies

the weight of toasters

are couched by water upon entry.

They do not sink,

their bodies, buoyant.

It is true I entered feet first,

but the water allowed for me,

its steel surface caved in welcome.

Within seconds, I drew breath.

I tell this woman what it feels like to be alive—

the taste of spice with every sliver of pie,

death a thicket away.