Blizzard in Vernal Equinox

It was about two rotations to midnight 

on the first day of spring when 

the egret-colored snowdrops 

avalanched their way into my socks.   After stupidly wading them 

on the cool, wet, shores of Juno Beach, 

my faux-leather, faux-chic, faux-practical boots 

gaped open like the maw of a basking shark. 

Reason would tell me to venture back 

to my tiny dorm then and there, 

but reason was never a 22-year-old’s 

strong suit. But I marched on, 

as it had been at least two 

years since our last meeting - 

ushering for some French comedy neither of us 

remember the name of but thoroughly enjoyed nonetheless - and unbeknownst to me, 

it would be squared from that 

when we would meet again. 

Like the finest exhibits, meetings with 

you are rare but cherished. 

Here I was among poets, songwriters, 

artists, and the staggeringly stunning Scylla 

you were, beaming at us all. 

What then was I? A simian 

prancing around the dive bar 

in her snow-infested boots? 

My writing then was white, pretentious, 

sad boy dribble with an online thesaurus, 

as opposed to my modern poetry which is 

white, pretentious, sad girl dribble 

with Shakespeare and Acker under her belt. 

So ashamed was I of my own 

jarring Philistinism that, despite your best efforts, 

I couldn’t contribute more than two 

haphazard words to each conversation. 

I couldn’t read Ovid or Edith Hamilton, 

I was too concerned chasing after the 

bodies of girls I secretly wanted to snatch 

and make my own like some 

alcoholic, dysphoric tulpa. 

In some ways, that’s what was 

happening that night - minus the lust, 

a troll has no business seducing a huldra. 

Your Vampira strut, your merlot laugh, 

your anamber eyes. From the madcap 

gymnastics of your eyebrows 

when you got excited to the gentle way 

you brushed your hair from your face 

and rested your fingers on your jaw 

as you read - I wanted all of it. 

Nonchalantly, since that night, 

I found myself copying these movements and suddenly my mental vanity reflected not 

the boy you saw that night 

but a blonde belle I’m still waiting to meet. 

Apparently I plagiarize not just 

your prose but your entire being. 

I am Jack’s complete and utter lack of shame. 

Since that night, I learned of those 

threatened by your radiance, 

your adoration, your genius. 

For every masterpiece there are 

at least a few who wish to vandalize it. 

But you can’t be killed with 

splatters or stabs or smacks. 

Your clay remolds and your paint recoats 

as you live on and tour your ethereal exhibit. 

They will sink into their dowsing holes, 

cursed, never to find as little as a geode, 

while you carole eternally in the halls of dragons - 

never to tire, never to falter, 

never to burn.