by Janet Turpin Myers07 Mar 2016
Open my window.
Count my fingers.
How many months have passed?
November December January February March
Where else in the world must a woman live
with her windows latched for a fistful of months?
Down there in Mexico?
They don’t close the windows down there.
The odd hurricane, I suppose,
but the rest of the time it’s desert heat
cha-cha cha-ing like love love loving.
My cat plants front paws on the sill,
pokes pink nose through the open window.
I know what kitty’s thinking.
Careful! – could be a trick.
A brazen salsa breeze
has conga-ed all the way up from down there
and is promising kitty a Latin Lover
Ola! It’s time to tango, pussy cat!
Careful! Spring is a tease
The glacier on my roof is melting (kitty must notice this)
and drums a mariachi beat of water
drip-drip dripping past the window.
Kitty’s poking nose gets wet.
I hear the yippee ki-yay of car tires
skipping a rumba of mud on my country road.
I imagine the tires sing spring
spring at last, spring, spring at last!
Ola! train whistle in the distance
Kitty twitches an ear—the one snapped off by frostbite
nine winters ago.
Careful! Spring is fickle
Has that train whistle been blowing all along, mute to me,
woman paralysed by winter behind this window glass
for a fistful of months?
Or does it only toot when it can do the Macarena
on the brazen Mexican breeze
and sing spring, spring at last, spring.