February is, once again, February, and I do not mean to be surprised by this but still the catch in my chest when the days pass; unsuspecting of  March,

oh heart, always stay so unprepared.

Name the present Sculptor for the way she molds the past from moments malleable like, like the childhood softball, three times the size of my tiny palm,

the pitch like release.

Clay won’t stay soft forever, but I don’t know this or, or just won’t accept this and think instead of sweaty backs in big back yards with grass scratchy on my bare ankles.

Name myself The Repossessor for the way clay shatters when I touch it; for the way I love her like I threw the softball

no trajectory; just release

like the March I know is coming; the bat I know is swinging, but loving while I hurtle through the air.

—  SM, My Professor Told Me That Poetry is Nothing But A Recalling of Once Spontaneous Emotion
How is the octopus?

The beach is hammered with sun shells and sand dollars, and we tiptoe out in jubilant reverie, hammered too, and for one reason or another (the riptides of our consciousness) we land always with treasures underfoot, a tandem wince and tilt until the crunch becomes boring as failures do

by the water’s edge we wish for smoother weeds, and rakish you entreat your kingdom for a vacuum, and we laugh ourselves sober as a dyson coming down the dune to wet and sundry on the sands as some beached creatures do

we have stiffed our way forward from that day til now, when ripping into crust and soaking it in juices you insist into your plate I must have walked that beach with someone else, and man before that bite I would have sworn for all of time that it was you

LR Smashnuk 2/24/17