Violet Season
when the body remembers before the mind allows it
Spring doesn’t ask permission.
It takes the body back.
It arrives in pieces—
in small awakenings,
in the way something touches you before you have language for it.
I’ve been thinking about how early that begins.
How the body learns to feel before it learns to hide.
And how, somehow, it remembers.
Violet Season
Spring is tasting me—buds and blooms,
seeds shouting and touching.
The hydrant is thick,
in the yard—its skin peeled, imperfect—
an orchid tree: eyes wide, mouths open,
innocent, sweet, succulent.
The day, long after we are tuckered—
brushes, combs, bathed—
now the trees try on their new hair,
flicking, flipping, fluttering, flirting with the sky
where once we stood,
insulted, spat at—
crude, rude comments—
curling in a stark bedroom
around naked prepubescence.
Here we are:
flushing, blushing,
wiggling and dancing,
winking with promise—
covering lips with a finger,
shushing pleasure,
veiled vulva violet,
humming with certain ecstasy.
The body doesn’t forget how to open.
Even after shame.
Even after silence.
Especially then.
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