january,

i am attempting to hide from
you. i am hibernating in a bed
four times my size. i am imitating
a bear, clawing at you and growling
in my deepest growl.


february,

i stuffed you in a heart
shaped box and buried
you in my garden.

nothing grew,
but when i planted
radishes they tasted like
chocolate raspberries.


march,

where are your lions and lambs?
i have pigeon toes and
wild oats for hair,



april,

i went to the doctor on
the 10th. i learned that
i had forty two feathers growing
from my shoulder blades.


may,

el cielo es azul,
y te quiero,


june,

my legs are the color of mosquitos,
which is deep blood red and scratches.
potato bugs crawl up my skirt.


july,

my teeth are too big for
my mouth. my appetite is
too big for my stomach.

the doctor says
that the way my
nails have turned
into claws is not normal.


august,

i have a heart murmur
and it feels like a

small rabbit growing in my upper
chest, with its legs kicking in
my throat.


september,

my spine is rearranging itself,
and i cannot walk on legs
alone anymore.


october,

my thumbs are gone.


november,

it is cold and i am not
cold because i am covered
in feathers and fur and i have a snout


december,

all i can do is roar.