The last 3 letters of the spring

I imagine a gray, dim day 

as the Eastern European legend has it: 
when it pours, stick a knife in the ground—it will die down—a good luck token
I’ve been told
as a kid I watched my mother fight her fear of thunder 
watched her run towards its core—a heavy sentence—someone has been 
a shitty person—here on earth

Find the deadliest blade
Go deeper, darker
Stab harder, my love, cleaner, no sharp edges 
You’ve always been better at this kind of stuff; there is a joke here somewhere, there is always a joke, isn’t there?

Oh, to be loved the way I loved

You poor, poor child...
Have they let you wander, kiss their toes, kneel
like a begging joker?

A heavy storm is always a curse
as the story goes:
you want the skies crying 
like a feral widow in her 30s
But no worries, there is always a hero, he’s come to save us!
Had they spread the word? That first word, that last crisis? A prince charming, a knight in shinning armor and a happily ever after—that's your dragon!
Had they drunk from an empty cup, evening out the immoral, healing 
a universal oath, but no worries, there is always a forest hag 
watching you
like a feral damsel in distress
that's your monster!

Oh, to be desired the way I desired: he bakes sourdough I write poems
there must be someone 
there must be some God(s) someone who knows where
that sweet sweet nothing and my boy 
are
I’ve been counting 
hours, days, blessings
“he bakes sourdough I write poems”

I imagine a gray, dim night 
some yellow flowers
a knock:
“I am sorry”
“me too”